


The Fairy Glass

by sneck



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaking, Cross-Generation Relationship, Harry is good at potions, Horcruxes, M/M, Referenced Character Deaths, Slow Burn, Suicide mention, Young Tom Riddle, past severus/regulus, platonic snily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneck/pseuds/sneck
Summary: After the Battle, Harry wakes up in a strange new world with a dying Severus Snape on his hands.  It's a fight for survival as he has to nurse Snape to recovery while learning to navigate a dangerous reality.





	1. Another Shack

The Great Hall is quieter than Harry can remember it ever being.  Everyone speaks in hushed tones feet treading softly between rows of bodies as if afraid to disturb the dead from their rest.  Harry sits with the Weasleys for a time.  No one speaks.  They just clutch each other and learn to live with their grief.  George is the only one who ever makes any noise, a wretched sobbing that sounds like every breath has ripped it from his lungs.

When it's time for Harry and Hermione to give the family some space, they ask Madame Pomfrey to put them to work in the Hospital Wing.  Hermione has gotten handy at healing spells in the last year and she casts according to Pomfrey's brisk orders. 

Harry doesn't trust his meager healing skills on the more gruesome cases, so he busies himself with bringing supplies to and from Pomfrey's office, changing sheets, and occasionally holding down a patient who is thrashing about in pain.  It's hard work and it keeps his mind occupied.

He and Hermione don't talk much, though there's much to talk about. There would be time to talk later but for now it's just bandages and blood replenishers.

Eventually they are herded from the Hospital Wing by a concerned McGonagall.  Eyes heavy and hands covered in blood, Harry doesn't have the energy to put up a fight.  Hermione doesn't look like she's in any better shape.  They let themselves be escorted by their former Head of House (Hogwarts was not yet safe enough to wander about alone, she said) and when they entered the Common Room, all heads turned to look at them.  The Gryffindor students who'd stayed to fight (and survived) are all there--Seamus, Dean, and Neville are sitting together by the fire, Lee Jordan is entertaining some shell shocked 6th years (he must not have heard about Fred yet), and Padma Patil is holding her sister as she sobs into her shoulder.

At first they're met with shocked silence.  Then one by one people start clapping.  Shouting.  They all stand, even Parvati who nods tremulously at Harry through her tears.  He can feel Hermione shifting uncomfortably at his side, and he feels his own stab of anxiety at the sight of his former classmates dirty and bleeding and looking to him for guidance.

Fortunately McGonagall steps forward and says, "Yes, that's enough of that." And the applause dies down.  "Now then, it is late.  Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger shall be resting undisturbed for the night, and I suggest you all do so as well."

Harry takes a step in the direction of the boy's dormitory when McGonagall calls him aside.

"You wanted to ask me something, Professor?" Harry says, blinking hard to keep his eyes open because now the option of sleep has been put on the table his body is getting a head start.

McGonagall looks sorry to be keeping Harry up, but asks, "What you said about Professor Snape in the Great Hall.  Was it true?"

Harry, more awake now, nods.  McGonagall sucks in a sharp breath.  "It was Dumbledore's plan all along."  Harry thinks about what he saw in the Pensieve and anger at the unfairness of it all fills him.  "Do you remember his hand?  He was cursed, dying.  He knew that if he died, there'd be nothing stopping Voldemort from taking over the school.  And when he did, there had to be someone in place to protect the students-"

"Severus."   McGonagall looks years older.  "And you are sure that he is truly...dead?"

"Yeah." McGonagall nods stiffly but her eyes glisten.  Harry looks away, embarrassed by his teacher's tears.  "I'm sorry.  Were you friends?"

McGonagall laughs shakily.  "In as much as one _could_ be friends with Severus Snape.  But yes.  I have for many years regarded Severus as a friend, and much as he would have denied it, I am certain that feeling was mutual."  She sniffs and reaches for a handkerchief so Harry looks away again.  When he glances back she is perfectly composed as always.  She lays a hand on Harry's shoulder.  "Thank you, Mr. Potter.  Get some rest."

Harry nods and goes.  At the stairs to the dormitories Hermione is waiting.  Without saying anything she hugs him fiercely.  Harry buries his face in her bushy hair and thinks that if he wasn't so tired he would cry again.

They part and head to their beds.  To Harry's surprise, his Invisibility Cloak is sitting on his four poster with a note from Hagrid saying he'd gone back out to get it for him.  Harry makes a mental note to thank him in the morning.  He washes the blood and grime from his hands and face.  He would change out of his disgusting clothes if he had any clothes to change into.  And the Elder Wand is still sitting in his back pocket--he needs to figure out what he's going to do about that.

Tomorrow.  All of it can wait until tomorrow.

Harry settles himself in the nook by his bed like he used to when he first came to Hogwarts and stares down at the grounds and the Forest beyond.  Using his Invisibility Cloak as a blanket, he chuckles at the sight he makes, a floating torso and a pair of disembodied trainers.  Outside the sky is a soft purple color and the sun is just about peeking its head over the horizon.  Kreacher brings him a plate of sandwiches and he eats one as he thinks of all the ways his world has just changed. 

Whatever the students in the Common Room might think, he is just Harry now.  No more running, no more mysteries, no more fighting to live another day.

But even as his eyes drift closed, the tension in his chest doesn't go away.  It still feels like something terrible is about to happen.  He still doesn't feel safe.  The last thought he has before sleep drags him down is that maybe he doesn't know how.

 

Harry wakes up in pain.

He can't see, doesn't know where he is, only knows that it _hurts_.

He is being pulled in all directions.  It's like there are hooks in every part of his body--his feet, his stomach, his skin, his eyes--ripping him to pieces.

He tries to scream.  He doesn't have breath.  He doesn't have _lungs_.

He's going to die.

He's going to die.

He's going to die.

He is not dead.

He is gone. 

And then he's not.

His pieces crash back into each other with a terrible jolt, like being struck by lightning.

The pain subsides.  Harry sinks again into blackness.

 

The ground is hard and cold beneath him when Harry comes to.  He has a few moments of disorientation before reality hits him like a bus.  Pain.  Danger.  Where was he?  Who'd attacked him?

Harry squints his eyes open.  It's too dark to see anything useful, though he thinks he can make out a high wooden ceiling. 

His fingers inch toward his holly wand.  He risks turning his head to the side...

...and stares directly into Nagini's slitted red eyes.

He shouts and scrambles away, frantically kicking away some kind of cloth that gets tangled up in his legs.  He launches himself behind the nearest cover, a dilapidated armchair.

He can't hear the slithering of her enormous body, so he chances a peek around his cover.

It's so dark but when his eyes adjust enough to make out shapes he sees that Nagini is most definitely not a threat.  Her eyes still gleam unnaturally in the shadowy place they're in, but they're in a head that's very clearly severed from the rest of her body, coiled in a grotesque heap nearby.

Harry doesn't let his guard down.  He squints into the shadows around him but can't make out any movement.  There's no sound apart from his controlled breathing.  It's only after several minutes of tensely waiting for the other shoe to drop that Harry feels confident that he's alone and cautiously rises from his crouch.

" _Lumos_."

Even with the small bit of light from his wand, Harry recognizes where he is immediately.  The Shrieking Shack.

"What the hell...?"

Even stranger is what he finds when he investigates Nagini's body.  Because a few steps from her is the Gaunt ring, and a few steps from that, the warped remains of Hufflepuff's cup.  Harry raises his wand high above his head and sees more objects, perfectly spaced from each other in a circle.  Heart racing, Harry identifies all the objects.  Nagini's body.  The ring.  The cup.  The diadem (blackened bits of metal lying in a pile of ashes).  Slytherin's locket.  Riddle's diary.  And...

The body of Severus Snape.

Harry's stomach drops.  There's no mistaking that nose and sallow face, twisted into a severe scowl even in death.  The man lies on his back in an ungraceful sprawl, black robes spilling onto the wood like tar.  An odd mix of anger and regret hits Harry at the sight of him. 

"You were the bravest, most miserable bastard I've ever met, sir.  You didn't deserve to die like this."

It feels wrong to leave Snape lying ragdoll on the grimy floor, so Harry gingerly lays one of Snape's hands on his chest, then the other.  But as he does so he notices that Snape's right hand was closed in a fist, almost like he's holding something.  Turning the palm over, Harry pries out the object--a vial that he immediately recognizes because he'd just handled boxes of identical ones in the Hospital Wing.  Blood replenisher.

Snape hadn't been holding that when Harry'd left him.

Heart pounding, Harry shoves a hand under Snape's hooked nose.  It's faint but.  He's breathing.

" _L_ _umos maxima!"_ Harry cries.

The room floods with light and once it does Harry can see that he's kneeling in a pool of drying blood.  But the blood near Snape's head is dark and wet.  Harry uses the spell Pomfrey taught him to deliver the contents of the potion directly into Snape's stomach.  The vial empties and Harry hopes to god he didn't just banish it into the Great Lake. 

He can hardly see the wound with Snape's layers and layers of robes in the way so he rips them open with a severing charm.  He winces as the fabric clings to the bloody skin.  The bite is enormous and Harry gags at the sight.  There are four puncture wounds, two slashing up from the collar bone and two more gaping holes that penetrate so deeply into the back side of Snape's neck Harry thinks it's a miracle he was able to talk at all in the end.

" _Tergeo_."  The blood clears away and he can see the wound more clearly.  The bleeding is sluggish and the bright red edges of the bite marks are struggling to close before his eyes.  Harry notices three empty vials that lay near where Snape's hand had been.  "Of course.  You were prepared, you paranoid git."  He points his wand at Snape's robes, " _Accio potions!"_

A number of small bottles and vials fly out at Harry.  He identifies a few useless ones (Draught of Peace, Strengthening Solution and a few poisons that Harry's pretty sure are illegal) and puts them aside.  He picks out the Essence of Dittany and carefully pours four drops onto Snape's neck, one in every puncture.

The wounds sizzle and green smoke rises from it.  When the smoke clears the wounds have shrunken slightly but they're still there.  The edges bubble grotesquely, as if the magic is fighting to do what it's meant to do but something is stopping it. 

More alarming is the shallowness of Snape's breath and the hair-thin tendrils of blackness spidering out from the wound in his neck that Harry hadn't noticed before.  They spread down into his robes and over the side of his face.  Nagini's venom.

Harry fumbles with the remaining vials, but he doesn't know what they are and they aren't labeled.  Dammit.  _Dammit_.

He has to get help.  Madam Pomfrey.  She'll know what to do.  He could send a Patronus...no.  Too dangerous, too many unknown factors between here and Hogwarts.

Harry pulls on his Invisibility Cloak (which turned out to be the piece of cloth that had tripped him up earlier) and bolts down the secret passageway.  He runs the entire way.  After an eternity he finds the opening and climbs out of the Whomping Willow.  It's dark—darker than he remembers it being when he fell asleep.  He must have been out a whole day.  _How_ had Snape _survived_ this long?

His trainers slip over the grass as he sprints across the grounds but he very nearly stumbles when he takes in the sight around him.  Even in the dark, the difference is obvious—there’s no rubble, no scorch marks, no upturned earth, no curled up acromantula bodies--it looks as if nothing had happened at all.  The quietness of it all sends a chill down Harry's spine as he wheezes and launches himself up the front steps.

"What....the _hell_..."

The Entrance Hall is similarly restored when he bursts through the front doors.  He knows magic can do a lot, but _really?_   He could have sworn that entire wall had been blown to bits.  He takes a moment to catch his breath (and stare incredulously at a spotless suit of armor that just an hour ago had been charred black and missing both its arms) before he's running again.

The ominous feeling in his gut turns into full blown panic when he finds an empty hospital wing.

_Where have all the people gone?_

With rising dread, Harry runs up to the door of the mediwitch's office and yanks it open.

"Madame Pomfrey!"

To Harry's great relief she's there, standing on a stool to reach the top shelf of her cabinet.  She squawks in surprise when Harry bursts into the room and nearly loses her footing.  He whips off his Cloak just in time for her to snap around and glare at him with flustered outrage.

" _What_ in the name of Merlin-"

Harry rushes over to help her down.  "There's no time, Madame Pomfrey.  It's Snape!  He's still alive!"

Pomfrey gives him a strange look.  "Well bully for Professor Snape.  Now might I ask who you are and what business you have barging in here in the middle of the night?"

"What--no--listen, we have to go!  Snape's dying!" 

She looks startled.  "What do you mean-"

"I'll explain on the way, but he's bleeding and probably poisoned and he's been that way for hours.  I don't know how much longer he's going to last.  We have to go!  _Please_."

Madame Pomfrey's eyes widen as she takes in the blood all over Harry's clothes and hands.  After a moment of hesitation, brisk professionalism comes over her.  She starts summoning vials off her shelves and into a cloth medical bag.

"Nature of the injury?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Snake bite.  But probably not a normal snake?  It’s a magical snake—the last time someone was bitten by it he was in hospital for ages because they couldn't get the wound to close."

Madam Pomfrey tsks and shoots question after question at Harry, selecting more vials based on his hopefully accurate answers.  Finally she closes her bag and strides out of her office, Harry on her heels.

"Where?"

"The Shrieking Shack," Harry answers.  Pomfrey's stride falters at that.  And then she's walking so swiftly to the Floo Harry has to jog a bit to catch up.

"Wait, I have another way.  The Floo is too dangerous-"

"There's no time to waste.  Be ready to Apparate when you meet me on the other side."  Before Harry can stop her she steps into the fire, barking, "The Three Broomsticks!"

Harry curses and Floos to the Three Broomsticks.

Of course he ends up on his face when he topples out of the fireplace.  Madame Pomfrey hauls him up by the arm.  "Get a hold of yourself, man.  Forgive us, Rosmerta, but there is a medical emergency that needs my immediate attention.  Would you mind if we Apparated from here?"

Madame Rosmerta looks concerned from where she is wiping down the bar.  "Of course, Madame, we keep our Floo open to your office for a reason, you know.  Please let me know if there's anything else you need."  She smiles genially at them both, even Harry who is openly staring at her.

Pomfrey nods her thanks.  "Are you ready, Mr...?"

Harry looks at Rosmerta, then at Pomfrey, and carefully says, "...Potter."

"Mr. Potter then.  I will see you at the front entrance."  And with a crack she's gone.

Harry's mind races.  He absently watches Rosmerta clean a wine glass and hum under her breath like it's any other day.  Then he turns on the spot and thinks of the Shack.

They have to break down the door, which was boarded shut from both sides.  As soon as they're through, Pomfrey rushes to Snape's side.  She vanishes the blood and Snape's robes, leaving him in a pair of graying pants.  Embarrassed, Harry tries to keep his eyes on Snape’s face.

"Is he going to make it?"

The mediwitch bends over to pick up the used vials of potion, sniffing each one and nodding to herself.  "He will if I have anything to say about it, Mr. Potter."

Pomfrey, who had exclaimed in dismay when she saw Snape sprawled out in a pool of his own blood, says very little outside of incantations and the occasional order she gives Harry.  She has him transfigure a bed out of her handkerchief, and he levitates Snape onto it under her careful eye.  When she tells him to, he holds the man's mouth open and watches her pour potions down his throat.  The first he recognizes as a tissue regenerative elixir.  The next two are a mystery, and the last makes Madame Pomfrey hesitate.

"This potion will counteract the adverse affects of the venom to his nervous system.  His body will react strongly.  You may need to hold him down for me, Mr. Potter."

Harry, braces his hands on Snape's upper arms.  She administers the potion and Snape begins to convulse.  Harry thinks it's a seizure, but then harry sees the tiny black veins on Snape's neck growing, and growing all over his trembling body.  Snape's eyes are open and unseeing.  He suddenly lurches upwards, only for Harry to push him back onto the bed.

"What's happening to him?!"

Pomfrey moves her wand in rapid patterns over Snape's head.  "It will get worse before it gets better."

And it does.  Madame Pomfrey seems to be trying to flush out the poison through Snape's very pores.  She aims her wand directly at his heart and mutters a stream of long incantations.  Harry holds Snape's head in place to keep him from thrashing and opening up his wounds more.  As she chants, Snape breaks out into a sweat.  The sweat is black and the smell turns Harry's stomach.  Every inch of Snape's skin is wet with it, taking on a grey sheen, covered in little rivers black as oil.

To Harry's relief, Pomfrey vanishes it away.  The tiny black veins have shrunken down to just Snape's torso.  Pomfrey repeats the spell two more times until the veins are all but gone.

She takes out a clean bedsheet from her bag and lays it over Snape.  His wound still hasn't closed but he looks worlds better.  His breathing is even and no longer rasping.  Some of the color is returning to his skin and when Harry feels his pulse, it's slow and steady.

"Is he okay now?"

Madam Pomfrey wipes the sweat from her own brow, frowning.  "He is stable."

"But...?"

"Without another dose of the antidote the damage to his esophagus and vocal cords will be irreversible.  He'll never be able to eat or breathe on his own again, let alone speak.  And that's not even considering what the venom must have done to his nervous system, to his magic."

Harry can't imagine Snape restricted to his bed, half aware and being hand fed by orderlies at St. Mungos for the rest of his life.  "But he seems to be breathing fine." 

"Only because I have cast a respiratory charm on him, but they need to be renewed daily."  Pomfrey shakes her head.  "I was only able to stop the spread of the poison and reverse some of its effects.  This is the most I can do without the antivenin."  She lifts an empty vial from her the ground.  "Judging by the smell and the fact that Severus is still with us, I believe this was it."

Snape had been carrying around Nagini antivenin.  Harry doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore.

"Without this, Severus would have died within minutes of the bite," Madame Pomfrey sets the vial on the bed and pats Snape's hand with a fondness that surprises Harry.  "You did well to find me, Mr. Potter.  Any longer and the damage to Professor Snape's body would have near impossible to reverse."

The thought makes Harry nauseous all over again.  "How do we get more antivenin?  Snape's stores?"

"With venom this potent it needs to be brewed fresh and by a powerful wizard.  And I'm afraid that without a sample of the venom itself, it cannot be done.  We shall have to hope that Professor Snape kept a sample in his office and commission an antidote from St. Mungo’s Potions Master."

Harry thinks of Nagini's body, which he'd hidden under his Cloak while Pomfrey was preoccupied.  "Does the venom need to be extracted while the animal's alive?"

"No it does not.  And I hope you are not thinking of hunting the thing down, Mr. Potter.  I already have one patient to look after over the summer holidays."

"Summer holidays.  Right."

"What on earth was Severus doing in this dreadful old house?  What on earth was he doing in _Hogsmeade_?"  Harry watches Madame Pomfrey put empty vials into her medical bag and tries to look as guileless as possible.

"Perhaps he was trying to get another sample of that venom?"

Pomfrey snorts.  "I would not put it past that man.  Now here, help me with these bandages."

As Harry holds Snape's head up for Pomfrey to bandage his neck, he asks her questions.  What kind of potions would Snape need to take, how often and for how long?  When does she expect Snape to wake up, how frequently do his bandages need changing?  Oh and what was the incantation for that respiratory spell again?

"That should do for now.  I shall have to summon a few House Elves to levitate him back to the castle.  You should come along, too, Mr. Potter.  I expect the Headmaster will have a few questions for you."

"The Headmaster.  Professor Dumbledore."

"Who else?  He’ll want to know about this right away."

"Of course he will.  Er.  Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, for...you know.  Believing me and coming so quickly."

She smiles and pats his shoulder.  "I must admit you did make a suspicious picture, running in, covered in blood.  But you did well to bring me here."

"Thanks," Harry smiles back.  "And I'm really sorry Madame but-- _Obliviate!"_

Harry gently ushers an Obliviated and Confunded Madame Pomfrey back to the Three Broomsticks.  He thanks her profusely for coming out in the middle of the night to tend to his ailing uncle.  She is dazed but accepts his handshake and his thanks.

"Everything alright now?" Madame Rosmerta asks through a yawn after Pomfrey has Floo'd back to Hogwarts.

Harry puts on his most charming smile, aware that he is still very much covered in blood.  "Right as roses.  Thanks a lot for letting us use your Floo!  Night!"

His heart doesn’t stop pounding until he’s back inside the Shack.

"Fuck.  Bloody buggering fuck."

Time travel. 

Somehow, and for some reason, he, Snape, and all of Voldemort's horcruxes had been sent back in time.


	2. In Hiding

Harry tries not to panic.  He's in the past.  Fine.  He'd time travelled before and the world hadn't ended.  That had been only a few hours rather than years, but what's the worst that could happen?

Harry's brain immediately presents him with a lengthy list of the worst things it can imagine and Harry's gives up on not panicking. 

This has to be the work of someone who wants them dead or worse.  Someone sent them here for a reason, and Harry knows it can't be a good one.

His first instinct is to hide.  Grab Snape and run somewhere.  But Snape's in no condition to be moved.  And where would they even go?  Besides all that, it had been hours since Harry had woken up--if someone was going to come after them shouldn't have have done so by now?  Disturbed by the notion that someone could be watching, Harry casts _hominum reveleo_ in every room of the Shack, cursing himself for not doing it earlier.  Once he's sure there's no one around, he returns to the living room to think.

He could go to Dumbledore.  But would Dumbledore be able to resist the knowledge Harry had about the end of the war?  Would Dumbledore seeing them somehow change the future?  Harry still loves the man, but he's positive that if he goes to Dumbledore now he'll end up a pawn in his game of 3-d wizards' chess.

No, Dumbledore can't know.  Harry can't risk altering the timeline more than he already has, not when they've finally defeated Voldemort.  Harry will have to figure out this mystery on his own.

Why would anyone trap them in the past and not stick around to finish the job?  The more Harry thought about it, the more likely it seemed that whoever had brought them here had no intention of killing them right away.  Harry wondered if the person knew they were even at the Shack.

Perhaps something had gone wrong.  Or perhaps this wasn't a nefarious Death Eater scheme at all.  Harry can't think of anyone who would have the ability to pull something like this off just hours after the final battle--let alone the motivation.  Only the people who had been in the Great Hall at the time Harry blurted it out knew about Snape's true loyalties.  And nobody should know about the horcruxes.

Harry decides to stay in the Shack for now.  Running is still an option, but there are still too many unknown factors for him to be sure it's worth risking Snape's life by moving him.  The Shack is as good a place as any to hide--at least no one would bother them here.  Less chance of causing a time paradox.

There's a lot to do.  Harry needs to do something about the open doorway in the front of the house.  He also needs to set up wards, hide the Horcruxes, secure all the entrances and exits...

By the time Harry is done, the front door is somewhat repaired and locked shut, as is every window on the first floor.  The Horcruxes he'd levitated into a pile in a closet under the stairs (the irony does not escape him).  Some of the objects were difficult to move, they were so fragile.  He had to transfigure a bowl to put the ashes of the diadem in.  Nagini's body was all in one piece (sans the head) but was so heavy that it took all of Harry's concentration not to drop her.  Then he'd thrown a dusty sheet over the pile, shot every invisibility and shielding charm he knew at the thing, and locked the door.   

He feels a lot better with the horrible things out of sight.  With the last of the panic leaving him, he feels every inch of his body sinking into exhaustion.  He feels like he hasn't slept in days--and that might be true, now that he thinks about it.  The injuries he'd sustained in the battle are screaming at him with every move.  Harry casts a weak cleaning charm at his hiding armchair and sits.  It's disgusting, but it feels like heaven on Harry's back.  He'll just close his eyes for a few minutes...

Something is tickling his nose.  Harry opens his eyes and lets out a squeak he isn't proud of.  He squirms, batting at the spider on his face and ends up arse over tit on the floor with his legs still up on the armchair.

There's shards of light filtering in through the boarded windows.  What time is it?  He hadn't meant to sleep for that long.

"Snape!" Harry gasps.  He rolls to his feet in a manner more befitting a drunken toddler than a young adult.  He is by Snape's bed in a heartbeat.

Snape's skin is pale and even more dreadful looking in the sunlight, but his chest rises and falls regularly.  Still breathing then.  Thank Merlin.  Harry reaches a hand out to Snape's bare shoulder but hesitates before making contact.

"Snape?" he whispers.  "Professor?"

No movement beside the gentle rise and fall of Snape's chest.  Harry relaxes.  The thought of talking to the man makes Harry's stomach turn unpleasantly.

What would Harry even say? _Morning, sir.  Voldemort's dead and we've been sent back in time. By the way, about how you were in love with my mum..._

Two days ago Harry hated Snape almost as much as Voldemort.  And before that he'd always seen Snape as an intimidating, mysterious figure.  To have seen him as a child, as a young man kneeling at Dumbledore's feet, to watch him choke on his own blood...  Everything Harry had thought he'd known about Snape had been turned upside down.  He isn't sure how he'll feel to look the man in the eyes again.  He's as likely to start crying in gratitude as to break the git's nose.  Harry would like to avoid both if possible.

Even looking at the man asleep is making him uncomfortable.  The lined, sallow face is relaxed.  The lack of a scowl makes him look more like the awkward youth in Dumbledore's pensieve.  But even in those memories, Snape had never seemed so helpless.  Harry is suddenly intensely aware how fully Snape's life rests in his hands. 

Harry taps his wand against his leg absently trying to remember all the things Pomfrey had done and said.  He's not entirely sure he can pull this off.

"Okay then.  What do you need?  Water, and probably some food as well.  Can't have you starving to death after all that trouble.  And that respiration charm.  What was the incantation...  Oh--but before I forget--your potions..."

Harry gives Snape the potions he'd stolen from Pomfrey's bag, then casts the various charms he'd seen her perform and hopes he did them right.  After he's sufficiently convinced that Snape isn't going to expire the minute Harry turns his back, he goes to check his wards.

Grabbing a sandwich off the plate on the floor, Harry eats while he checks for signs of intruders or weak spellwork.  It doesn't look like they're going to get out of this any time soon.  He'll have to start stocking up on food and water, not to mention medical supplies for Snape.  And beyond just keeping them both alive, Harry needs to plan his next move.

Harry figures an exploration of Hogsmeade under his Cloak is in order.

After checking one more time that Snape's still breathing, Harry heads out.  The land surrounding their makeshift hideout is overgrown with weeds but other than a few candy wrappers from Honeydukes, a ring of mushrooms, and a broken bottle of firewhiskey, he finds nothing interesting.  In the village proper, people are just opening up their businesses for the day.  Harry plays spot-the-difference.  That cafe should be boarded up.   That entire row of houses should be smoking piles of rubble.  The middle aged man watering his garden and calling out a greeting to his neighbor through a yawn shouldn't be alive.

When he finds no Death Eaters lurking anywhere around Hogsmeade, he uses the secret passage in Honeydukes to return to Hogwarts.  The halls are empty but he has to dodge Mrs. Norris on his way down to the dungeons.  The door to Snape's store cupboard is locked but clicks open at a simple " _Alohamora._ "

"Huh.  Must not keep anything important in here."

After he raids Snape's stores, he sneaks into Madame Pomfrey's office and takes as many clean bandages as he dares.  He decides to risk a visit to the kitchens and luckily the house elves are only too happy to provide him with more pies than he can carry.  He has to cast extension charms on his pockets.

His last stop is the library.  Pince is nowhere to be seen, which means that Harry can pull every book on time travel he can find and settle into a corner and read until his eyes go dry. 

He doesn't learn much more than he already knew.  There isn't a single reference to rituals, or magic circles, or soul magic.  Harry will have to check the restricted section at some point.

He's taking a break from Nicholas Gambeley's _A Nick in Time: How I Came to Be Trapped in the 18th Century_ (an ancient looking text that opens with: "Well fuck me.") when he notices how dark the sky has gotten.

Harry starts shoving books onto shelves as fast as he can, cursing under his breath.  How long has he been gone?  Anything could have happened to Snape in all that time.  A chill runs through him as he imagines returning to the Shack only to find Snape's dead body at the feet of a vengeful Death Eater.

_Shit shit shit!_

For the second time in two days, Harry runs the length of the hidden passage to the Shack.

_Please don't be dead._

When he finally gets there Snape hasn't died.  But he _has_ soiled himself.  Wrinkling his nose, Harry casts several strong cleaning charms and resolves to never stay out for more than a couple of hours at a time.

"It's just as well you won't remember any of this.  If you did you'd break all your vows and strangle me to death yourself."

Still feeling horribly guilty, Harry takes extra care changing Snape's bloody bandages.

Harry falls into a sort of routine.  He spends the mornings fortifying the wards and giving Snape his potions.  Then he sneaks into the Hogwarts library to research until lunchtime where he returns to the Shack to change Snape's bandage and cast the nutrition and hydration charms he'd found in _A Healer's Guide to Spellcraft._   His afternoons he either spends exploring Hogsmeade under a glamour or undertaking the arduous task of cleaning the Shrieking Shack.

Harry doesn't need a textbook to tell him that a moldy old house is not an ideal environment for a patient in recovery.  It takes him the better part of a day (and a nasty tussle with a colony of doxies) but Harry is proud of the state of the living room.  The wallpaper is still shredded and there's an enormous dark stain in the middle of the floor that looks suspiciously like blood, but he's gotten rid of the mold and the crusty rug, fixed the fireplace, and banished the dust from every room in the house.  With clean (albeit stained and warped) floors and a fire going in the newly repaired fireplace, it's almost cozy.

At the end of each day he casts the other charms he'd found in the textbook (for emptying the bowels and bladder) and some more he'd found in a book about personal hygiene.  It's embarrassing but better than giving Snape a sponge bath.

Really, all Harry needs to do is make sure Snape is fed, watered, and clean.  It's a bit like keeping an owl.

 

Harry's taken to talking to the Snape.

"How come you never wash your hair?  You seem so put together otherwise, it always bothered me."

"Now that I've had time to think about it, you being in love with my mum all this time is a bit creepy, mate.  Though I s'pose if I'd ended up indirectly killing Ron or Hermione I'd be pretty obsessed with making it right, too."

"I'm still angry.  About Dumbledore.  And Sirius.  And every horrible thing you've ever said or done.  I know now that you were following orders like the rest of us but...you're just a right bastard, you are.  They're all gone now, you know.  The Marauders.  Mum.  Everyone but you.  What gives you more of a right to live than them?  God, I hate you."

"...All that stuff I said yesterday, I didn't mean it.  Or well, yeah I kind of did.  You _are_ a bastard.  But you're a brave one and we all owe you our lives.  And I don't hate you...anymore.  And I'm really glad you can't actually hear me."

"Shouldn't you be waking up by now?  Maybe I should've let Madame Pomfrey take you--but the timeline.  And Dumbledore.  Should I have told him?  Bollocks.  I should have told him.  I'm going to tell him.  Wait here."

"What the hell was I thinking?!  I can't tell him!  He practically led _both_ of us to our deaths.  There's no way he won't try to read my mind and find out what happens before he's meant to.  I'm pants at Occlumency--which is your fault, mind--and it's not like I can Obliviate Dumbledore!"

"I'm thinking of charming the wallpaper another color.  Light blue, what d'you reckon?"

"Time travel is barmy.  How in the bloody hell could McGonagall give Hermione a time-turner when she was _thirteen?_ "

"I, er, came across some gold.  Don't scowl, I was careful and I didn't take too much."

"I bought you some new pants.  Sorry but your old ones are filthy and I'm going to burn them.  And...I couldn't find a charm for dressing and undressing a patient so, er, this is going to be awkward."

"Bloody hell, Snape, you've got an arse tattoo?!"

"There's so many spiders in this house.  I've done everything I can.  So if one of them crawls up your nose and burrows into your brain it wasn't my fault."

The first time Snape says something back it's five days into their routine and Harry is telling him about the benefits of wearing an athletic cup for Quidditch.

"Wizards seem to think cushioning charms are enough, but I say you can't be too safe when it comes to your bits."

"So... _this_ is hell."

It's faint and raspy, but the voice is just as sardonic as Harry remembers.

"You're awake!  Oh, hell--sorry--how are you feeling?"  Harry hastens to clean up the remains of his bacon sandwich, which he'd spilled onto Snape's bed in surprise.  Snape hasn't so much as turned his head but his eyes follow Harry's hands as they awkwardly swat crumbs off the sheets.  He looks like he's having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

"Potter," Snape murmurs, lips barely moving.  "I see you've gone to hell, too.  How...unexpected."

"Er, Professor Snape?  How much do you remember?"  Harry scoots his chair closer to the head of the bed.  "You were bitten.  You're, erm, in hospital.  You shouldn't be able to talk at all, but I guess the antivenin was more effective than Pomfrey realized."

Snape doesn't seem to have heard him.  He's staring at the rafter of bacon in Harry's hand.  "Or perhaps you are an illusion.  Is this to be my punishment?  An eternity of Harry bloody Potter?"

"No.  Professor.  You're alive.  It's over, Voldemort's dead."

Snape shuts his eyes and frowns.  "Shhhh.  Mustn't speak his name.  Beetlejuice."

Harry blinks.   "What?"

Snape looks at him blankly.  "Muggle film, Potter.  Never heard of them?"

The _Idiot's Guide to Medicinal Potions_ had said: _Prolonged usage of the more potent pain relieving draughts may leave one disoriented and uninhibited, producinga similar effect as a Babbling Beverage._

"Potter," Snape considers him intensely.  "Have you any relation to Alec Baldwin?"

"I don't think so."

"Hmph." 

Harry waits for more, then realizes that Snape has gone back to sleep.

He spends the next few days reluctant to leave Snape's side in case he wakes up again.  He only goes out once, spending the remaining pick pocketed gold to buy a book on poisons.  Dubiously named _101 Poisons and How to Use (or Even Cure) Them,_ it is surprisingly informative and even has moving illustrations demonstrating how one should care for the recently poisoned.  (Harry studiously ignored the fact that the book referred to the poisoned as "your victim.")

Snape wakes up four or five times a day, always muttering to himself (usually something disparaging about Harry's appearance).  Harry tries to make those moments count.

"Potter?  What are you doing in my rooms?"

"We're not at Hogwarts.  Listen carefully, I need you to try to wiggle your toes for me."

"I will do no such thing."

"Fine."  Harry lifts the bottom of the sheet and pinches Snape's foot, earning a grunt and a very weak attempt to kick him in the face.  "Good, looks like everything's working down there."

"How _dare_ you?  You've just earned yourself twenty months of detention, Potter!"  The threat isn't very frightening when slurred by someone who is staring imperiously at the ceiling because they've forgotten how to lift their head.

The next time it's:

"Snape, stay awake.  I need you to recite the alphabet."

"No."

"The book says I've got to test for brain damage."

"Having had the dubious honor of being your professor for six years I can save you the trouble and confirm that you have the mental acuity of a pre-digested flobberworm."

"I'll cross brain damage from the list then, shall I?"

Another day sees Harry trying to get Snape to eat some porridge.  Snape scowls and insists on feeding himself.

Harry reluctantly helps Snape sit up with the bowl in his lap.  The man seems not to have noticed the fact that he's starkers but for a pair of brand new boxer briefs.  Harry has to support his back so he doesn't fall and gently guides Snape's trembling spoon-holding hand closer to his face.  Snape seems completely unaware of Harry's assistance.

A few slow spoonfuls are eaten before Snape makes a sound of distress and drops the utensil in the sheets.

"What?  What is it?  Does it hurt to swallow?"

"My nose..." Snape has a hand to his face, touching said proboscis.  "What have you done?  You have engorged it!"

"I promise I haven't."

"Lies!  It has never protruded so much before!"

"I promise it has, Snape.  Eat your porridge."

As bizarrely hilarious as Severus Snape, high as a kite, can be, there are times that Harry has to try his very best not to smother the man with a pillow just to shut him up.

"Your father was a bastard-"

"Based on your memories, so was yours."

"-arrogant, lazy-"

"God, you're like a broken record."

"-always too eager to die in a blaze of glory, no matter that it got Lily killed-"

"Not another fucking word, Snape."

"She is _dead_ because of him-"

"No, she'd dead because of _you!_   You brought the prophecy to Voldemort, it's _your_ fault they died!"

"NO!"

" _Yes_ , you son of a bitch-"

" _It was you!_   The Dark Lord wanted you!  Lily and James died to save the life of a worthless brat with a hero complex, too dim witted to save his own hide let alone anyone else's.  How many have died merely to keep you alive, hm?  Your parents, your cursed godfather, even bloody sodding Wormtail--and who I wonder has been the latest to take on the honorable mantle of Harry Potter's Human Shield?  Granger?  Weasley?  The werewolf?"

Harry just barely-- _barely--_ makes it out of the house before he can cast the blasting spell that's at the tip of his tongue.  He slams his glamours down and spends the whole day in the woods exploding tree trunks.

After that, Harry learns to cast a silencing charm on Snape the minute he starts in on his father.  Snape is always furious, of course, but is also so out of it that he never remembers afterwards.

"You do resemble James far too much to stomach," Snape mumbles while Harry changes his bandages one morning.  Harry manfully resists the urge to strangle Snape with his own dirty bandages and grabs his wand for another silencing charm.

"But your eyes," Snape continues, freezing Harry mid-incantation.  "They are so very much like hers.  Like Lily's."

Harry holds his breath.  Snape is staring into his eyes the way he did when he'd lay dying weeks ago.  "You were friends with my mum."

"Yes."

"What...what was she like?"

Snape's eyes never leave his but an unfocused haze comes over them.  "She was love personified.  She could come across the most vile, loathesome creatures living under the dankest stone, unworthy to kiss her boots, and find charity enough in her heart to love them.  Her shrew of a sister, James Potter, me..."  Snape seems to come back to himself and pins Harry down with his searching gaze.  "She loved _you_ so much it vanquished the Dark Lord."

Harry swallows thickly.  He averts his eyes to Snape's wound, focuses on cleaning it with the sponge he'd taken from the Hospital Wing.  His pulls his lips into a smirk.  "I suppose that would make me a slimy creature that crawled out from under a rock then?"

"I was meant to protect you, for her," Snape rambles on.  His voice shakes minutely.  "But I have failed."

"No, no, Snape," Harry says.  The man looks vulnerable and it makes Harry's gut twist.  "The war's over and I'm still alive, you didn't break your vow."

Snape shakes his head.  "The war, the _war_ cannot end--can never end--while you still live.  I have begged-- _begged_ him, but Albus believes the prophecy means _you_.  _You_ must die.  Yet I've promised Lily, I swore on my life.  I--you--I cannot-"

Harry strengthens his respiratory charm until Snape doesn't seem like he's on the edge of hyperventilation.  "Professor, just breathe okay?  Slowly now, that's good.  Do you know where you are?"

Snape grabs Harry by the front of his shirt--or tries to.  His hands tremble violently, his fingers slipping through the fabric.  Snape's stare is imploring, almost desperate.  It seems to take all his strength to reach up one shaking hand.  Harry takes it, meeting the weak grip with his own.

"I tried to save you--to spare you-"

"I know."

"Before I killed him--Albus--he has asked me to protect the school--the children--I must protect-"

"You did, Snape, you-"

"The Dark Lord is coming--I have to find you, have to tell you how you must die..."  Snape's voice is painfully hoarse.  His eyes can't seem to focus properly.  "Lily, Lily, forgive me.  Your son..."

"Shh, it's alright.  I'm right here.  I lived.  I lived."

Harry holds his hand and listens to his distressed mutterings until the man is too exhausted to stay awake.

 

Harry studies the notes he'd written in the back of _101 Poisons._

 _Feeling in fingers and toes ok_  
_Cannot breathe or swallow without magical assistance_  
_No brain damage_  
_Blood levels stable_  
_No major change in personality--still a git_  
_Memory loss?_  
_Eyesight going off? Squinting a lot_  
_No vomiting or diarrhea_  
_Skin is oily, but maybe that's just the way it always is_

Judging from the information he'd gathered, Snape was in stable condition, like Pomfrey said.  What Snape wasn't doing, however, was getting better.

He needs the antivenin.  But going to St. Mungo's is out of the question.  The more Harry thinks about it, the more he’s beginning to realize that there’s only one way forward.  _He_ has to brew the antivenin.

So Harry steals a 7th year potions textbook from Snape’s classroom (sadly with no additions from the Half-Blood Prince this time) and reads up on antivenin.  Just looking at the NEWT level recipes makes Harry’s head spin.  There are so many more steps than usual, many of them involving rare ingredients he has no idea how to procure.  He's going to need help.  He's going to need Snape.

The next time Snape wakes up, Harry is ready with a clarity potion.  He’d only been able to find one in Snape’s stores so he needs to make this count.

“Professor?” he asks as Snape blinks slowly up at him from the bed.  The potion seems to be taking affect, unfogging the man’s gaze just enough that Harry can see a glimmer of recognition sparking in those black eyes.  “Professor Snape?  Do you know who I am?”

“Potter,” Snape rasps and Harry feels a rush of relief.  Snape blinks rapidly, his breath becoming even shallower as his eyes take in their surroundings.  He attempts to sit up, but winces in pain and falls back to the bed.  “The Dark Lord—!”

“Is gone!” Harry interrupts, gripping Snape’s wrist, as it searches in vain for his wand.  Snape freezes at the contact, staring bug-eyed at Harry.

“Potter, you must-“

“Die, I know.  Your memories.  I saw.  But listen—you’ve been bitten by Nagini, do you remember?”

Snape stares at him in shock but nods jerkily.

“Pomfrey’s been by to heal you, but there’s a situation and—I need to know how to brew the antivenin.  I have Nagini’s head,” Snape opens his mouth at this, but Harry plows on, “and I can get the other ingredients, you just need to tell me how.”

Snape is looking down at his undressed state for the first time.  He eyes the plate of sandwiches, the tabletop covered in potions vials.  His left hand gingerly touches the bandages around his neck.  Harry is still clinging to his right.  He must have a million questions running through his mind, about the war, about Harry, about the Shack, but all he does is lick his lips and say, “Clarity Concoction?”

Harry nods.

“How long?”

“A little over a week now.”

Snape starts at that.  “It has been a week since my last dosage?  I am lucky to be alive, let alone able to speak and think.”  Snape stares at Harry so intently that Harry is almost positive Snape is using Legilimency on him.  He’d forgotten how intense Snape’s stare could be.  “Is Hogwarts safe?”

Harry nods.  Now and in their time, Hogwarts was finally safe.  “It is, sir.”

“And the Dark Lord?”

“Gone.  I died, then he did.  But I came back.  He didn’t.”

Snape looks like he badly wants to demand an explanation, but instead he jerks his hand out of Harry’s grasp and asks for a quill and parchment.  “By my estimation, the Clarity Concoction will last for five more minutes.  I shall write down instructions, you shall follow them _to the letter_ , and then, Mr. Potter, you have a great deal of explaining to do.”

But by the time Snape is done shakily writing down his instructions (in the back of _101 Poisons_ , which he’d sneered mightily at), the five minutes are up.

“Swear to me, Potter,” Snape mumbles as he drifted off to sleep.  Harry leans closer.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Swear to me…you will tell no one that you saw me in my pants.”

Ah.  That would be the potion wearing off then.

“I swear, Snape.”

“Tell nary a soul.”

“I won’t.”

 

Just as Harry feared, the steps to brewing the antivenin are extensive.  Snape’s cramped writing fills the entire back cover of _101 Poisons_ , but strangely seeing the spidery scrawl only fills Harry with confidence.  This is the Half-Blood Prince, after all.  _His_ Half-Blood Prince.  Professor Snape may be a crap teacher, but he’s also a genius.  Comparing Snape’s recipe for antivenin to the one in the book, Harry finds several Prince-like variations. 

_Slice the daisy stems with a silver knife.  Harvest the venom in the light of the moon.  Add one counter-clockwise turn every 250 seconds._

There’s an incantation to be said at the end, as well.  Each type of magical venom, according to the NEWT textbook, requires its own spell to activate the antivenin properties.  Harry wonders if Snape created this spell himself.

Harry goes to Hogwarts and steals a silver cauldron, tools, and ingredients from the dungeons, then stops by Sprout’s greenhouse to harvest some fresher stuff, as per Snape’s instructions.

When he gets back, he sets up his cauldron right after checking in on Snape (awake and babbling again).  He transfigures himself a workbench and stool, which Snape criticizes for both being too tall and too short.  He sets up a ventilation charm, after Snape scolds him for not using one, and eventually (after ten minutes of Snape mocking the way he crushed scarabs), moves Snape’s bed closer to his work station so he could see more clearly what was going on.

“Why are you making an antivenin, Potter?”

“It’s for you, sir.”

“But I’m not poisoned.”

“I assure you, you are.”

“I don’t _feel_ poisoned.”

Harry snorts.  “You’re well doped up on painkillers right now, so I imagine not.”

“Oh.”  Snape blinks at Harry’s stolen cutting board.  “Those roots must be _minced_ , Potter, not _mangled_.  For fuck’s sake.”

Harry bursts out laughing.  “I’m actually going to miss you like this, Snape.”

 

_The finished potion must be aquamarine in color, with a silver sheen._

Aquamarine.  Silver sheen.  As far as Harry can tell, the potion is perfect.  Maybe even better than Hermione could’ve done. 

Harry feels oddly proud.  Sure, all he did was follow instructions.  Sure it took him two tries.  Sure he’d nearly gagged when he’d had to take Nagini’s head outside and harvest the venom.  But this is a NEWT level potion, and he did it on his own with hardly any guidance from a barely coherent professor.

He administers the antivenin the next morning when Snape wakes up.  He watches as the black sweat comes back and purges the venom from his system.  Snape seems to understand a little of what is going on and mutters something about the next dose being in 24 hours.  Which sends Harry into a slight panic, given that he doesn’t know for how long he’ll have to give the potion daily, and how much more he needs to brew.  He has to get Snape to properly explain it all to him, which means he needs to take Snape off the pain potion.

It isn’t easy.  Listening to Snape groan and wheeze in his sleep as the pain relievers wear off over the next few days is torture.  The first time, he wakes in a panic, trying to claw his own bloody bandages off.  The next few times he can’t speak or swallow for the pain, even breathing seems too much.  After that, Harry keeps him stunned and fortifies his respiration charms. 

After two agonizing days, Snape is finally able to stay awake without shouting in pain.  Harry hands him a quill and parchment.

“I’m sorry about this, Professor.  But the pain relievers were making you all...you know,” Harry began, but Snape was already writing.

_Did you brew the antivenin correctly?_

“Yes.  And before you ask, it’s been two days and I’ve given it to you every 24 hours.”

_Show me._

Obligingly, Harry brings a vial of the stuff over to Snape for inspection.  After a long moment, Snape nods his head minutely and Harry puts it away.  Oh well.  It isn’t as if Harry had expected any kind of praise or approval.  Would’ve been nice, though.

“The reason I needed to take you off the pain killers is that you didn’t write anywhere how long I’m supposed to give you the antivenin for and-“

Snape shoved the parchment in Harry’s face.  _Only an idiot would have put me on that family of pain relievers in the first place.  Follow my instructions and brew a new batch immediately.  Then we will talk._

It takes another trip to Hogwarts, but by mid-afternoon, Harry brews a toffee-colored potion he’s never heard of before and gives it to Snape.  As soon as it’s decanted, Snape snatches the vial from Harry’s hand and downs it in one.

“You imbecile!” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  “A week without antivenin, then taking me off pain remedies—I may be crippled for life!  Where is Poppy?  Why am I in your dubious care?”

“Hey now, I did my best,” Harry protests, feeling slightly childish arguing with a bedridden man.

“I’ll be sure to tell the mediwizards at St. Mungos that the Chosen One _did his best_ when they ask what the bloody hell happened to me.”

“We can’t go to Mungo’s.  It’s.  There’s a situation.  It’s hard to explain.”

“You had better explain.  But first thing’s first—give me my wand.”

Harry, having expected this, hands over Snape’s wand.  Snape takes it and struggles up into a seated position.  The sheet drops from his bare chest and Harry tries not to stare too obviously.

“Explain.”

So Harry explains.

He tells Snape what happened after he left the Shack.  About Hogwarts and the Death Eaters.  About Fred.  Dumbledore’s pensieve.  Seeing the memories, learning what he had to do.  The forest.  The Hallows.  King’s Cross and Dumbledore.

He tells him about the choice, about coming back.  Narcissa.  Neville and Nagini.  He tells him about the final duel and Voldemort’s death. 

“And you’re certain he’s—the Dark Lord—he has-”

“He’s gone for good this time.  We saw his body.  He’s gone.”

Snape’s clasps his shaking hands together, fingertips turning white.  His gaze is unfocused, far away.  “But how can we be sure?”  Snape stiffens suddenly and holds up his left arm.  The Dark Mark is nothing but a dull scar.

“Does it hurt?” Harry asks.

Snape shakes his head, staring at the scar in a daze.

“Voldemort had seven horcruxes,” Harry explains.  “I was the seventh.”

“ _Seven horcruxes-_ ”

“Yeah, I know.  That’s what Dumbledore had me doing that last year.  Hunting down the horcruxes and destroying them.  We got them all.”

Snape shakes his head in disbelief.  “The fool.  Sending children to complete such a task.”

Harry shrugs.  “How old were you when _you_ started spying for Dumbledore?  Twenty?  I’ll be eighteen in a month.”

“You’re still a child.”

“I was old enough to die for the cause, though, wasn’t I?”

Snape flinches and says nothing more.  Harry feels slightly bad—he wasn’t trying to make Snape feel guilty.  Harry didn’t harbor any bitterness about his fate, it was just how it was.

“I know what you were doing now—protecting me.  Protecting all of us.  Everyone knows you were on our side all along.  You’re a hero-”

Snape jerks his head, as if shaking off an annoying fly.  “I am a murderer.”

“Dumbledore asked you to-”

“You of all people should hate me.”

“You loved my mother.”

“I _killed_ your mother,” Snape snarls.  He slashes a hand at Harry’s scar.  “And I killed you, too.”

Harry glares back.  “I’m trying to thank you-”

“I don’t want your thanks, your charity, or your pity.”

“What _do_ you want then?!”

Snape flings his wand at Harry.  “I want you out of my sight!”

Harry stares down Snape’s wand, meets Snape’s furious gaze.  He averts his eyes to the ugly scar on Snape’s arm instead, light and fading but unmistakeably still there.

“Fine,” he mutters, then turns on the spot and Apparates.

 

He comes back after night has fallen with a greasy paper bag. 

“Hey,” Harry offers up the bag as sign of peace.  “I went to McDonalds.”

Snape snorts but accepts a chicken sandwich with chips.  Harry watches him carefully.  The man has enough muscle control to feed himself—just barely.  He’s still half naked, too.  He wonders if it’s better to offer the man his robes and watch him realize he can’t dress himself or to just dress the man while he’s sleeping.

“You haven’t explained why we’re still in this godforsaken Shack, Potter.  Are we in hiding?”

“Er, yes?”

“Death Eaters?” Snape’s glare sharpens.  “If so, you should have told me from the start.”

“Um, no, not exactly.  We seem to have, well…when I got here you were bleeding out so I went to get Pomfrey, right?  Only when I got her, she didn’t know who I was.  And there was no sign of a battle, no Death Eaters around, Hogsmeade was as good as new.  And Dumbledore’s still alive.”

Snape’s eyes widen a fraction at this, but otherwise gives nothing away.  “That is impossible, Potter.”

“I know, but it’s true.  I’ve been to and from Hogwarts loads of times, too, and the House Elves don’t even recognize me.”

Snape hums and runs a finger across his lips.  “Perhaps you have been bewitched.”

“For two weeks?”

Even Snape doesn’t seem to buy his own theory.  “There must be some trick to this that you have not uncovered,” Snape murmurs.  “What of Madame Pomfrey?  Why am I here and not in the Hospital Wing?”

“Well, I couldn’t let her take you back,” Harry says, pointing out the obvious.  “That’s one of the first rules of time travel, isn’t it?  Don’t be seen?”

Snape stares at him.

“Time travel.”

Harry shrugs.  “Well yeah, what else could it be?”

Snape pinches the bridge of his nose.  “It could be any number of things, Potter. We need more evidence before we jump to conclusions.”

Harry was annoyed.  Snape was still talking to him like he was some kind of idiot, as if he hadn’t been up to his ears in time travel books for the past fortnight.  “Nothing else explains why Pomfrey and the elves don’t know who I am, or why Dumbledore’s still alive.  We’ve traveled back to before I even came to Hogwarts.”

“What year?”

“I, er, I’m not sure,” Harry feels his face beginning to burn.

Snape arched his brow.  “Oh?  You don’t know?  And you have been here for…?”

“Almost two weeks,” Harry grits out.

“ _Two weeks._   And you believe we have traveled back in time and never thought to pick up a newspaper?  Ten points to Gryffindor, Potter.”

Harry is flustered now.  “I was just—I was busy, ok?”

Snape smirks.  “Busy doing what?”

“Taking care of _you_.”

Snape opens his mouth.  Closes it again.  His cheeks are turning a dark pink.  “Well.  Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough time?  Go to Hogsmeade and bring me a paper.”

Harry bristles at being told what to do.  He isn’t a student anymore.  “No, actually, I think I’ll go to Diagon Alley.  Tomorrow.  I need to pick up some more potions ingredients anyway, I sort of depleted your whole stock.”

Snape grits his teeth.  “Fine.  But do not get caught.  Wear that infernal cloak of yours.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

 

It is a hot summer day in London.  Much too hot for a stuffy old cloak.  Harry doesn’t see the harm in walking around uncloaked just this once.

Harry has a theory he wants to test out.  He drops the glamour on his face (but not his scar).  If he’s right, then they’ve travelled so far back in time that _no one_ knows who he is.  Without his scar, he’s just a bloke with a passing resemblance to James Potter.

His theory seems to be right, as nobody is stopping him to shake his hand or curse him.  Feeling confident, he enters Flourish and Blotts, hoping to find a new book on time travel.

What he isn’t expecting is to find is Gilderoy Lockhart’s new book, _Getting the Ghoul’s Ghost._  Harry doesn’t recognize it from his Second Year reading list, but if Lockhart is still publishing books it has to be before Harry’s Second Year at least.  If they’re lucky, it’s before Harry’s first year, too, and Voldemort is still roaming South America as a wraith and little Harry’s still locked underneath the stairs at the Dursley’s.

After he buys his books (with the money he’d pick pocketed in London), he heads to the Leaky Cauldron for a paper and some lunch.

“Fish and chips, please.  And a copy of today’s _Prophet_ , if you have it.”

“Sure thing, sir,” Tom says and slaps the morning’s _Prophet_ on the counter.

It says: _May 13 th, 1998_

 _But that can’t be right,_ Harry thinks.  “Tom!  Sorry, but the date’s wrong on this one, isn’t it?”

Tom waddles over and squints at the page. “No, sir, that’s today’s date alright.”

“Look at the year, the year’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Tom laughs, patting Harry on the shoulder.  “Bit early for drinking, sir, but to each his own!”

“Right, er...can I get the food to go?”

Harry hurries out of the Leaky Cauldron and into Muggle London.  He runs until he finds a stand selling newspapers and buys one.  The same date.  1998.  The same year he’d come from.

So.  Not time travel then.

In a daze, Harry walks back to Diagon Alley, still needing to buy ingredients for Snape’s potions.  His mind reels.  It’s 1998, but there are no signs of a war.  Even the _Prophet_ seems to think that the most pressing news of the day is the introduction of mascot birds at the Ministry.  Not one mention of Voldemort.  What did this mean?

He is about to enter Slug and Jiggers when he hears a young girl’s voice saying, “…have to get there before they’re all gone!”  There are some muffled admonishments and then a girl with a long brown plait comes catapulting out the door and straight into him.  He drops his lunch and his books to catch her so she doesn’t topple down the front steps leading up the store.

“Oh, I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!”  The girl frets, almond-shaped green eyes widening in panic.

“It’s alright,” Harry reassures as he rights her.  The girl isn’t wearing Hogwarts robes, but appears to be in Second or Third Year.

“Adel!” says a female voice near the door.  “What have I told you about running—oh!  Oh my goodness, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I...” the words die in Harry’s throat as he looks behind them.

Standing in the doorway of Slug and Jiggers is Lily Potter.


	3. The Boy Who Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just wanted to say thank you so much for the comments and kudos. They really motivate me and keep me going. <3 I also wanted to say that I've updated and changed some of the tags, so be sure to give that a look.
> 
> I also wanted to ask if anyone knew of any Snarry communities or forums that are still active? Like a LJ comm or a discord. I'd love to have more people to talk to about this pairing, but I have nowhere to go, and I'd really love it if someone could suggest some things. Anyway, here's the next chapter, it's a bit of a weird one but I hope you enjoy.

His _mother_ is standing there looking stern and so _motherly_ that for a moment Harry can’t breathe for longing.

The young girl stoops to pick up Harry’s books, wincing as she wipes off some ketchup that splattered on them from his lunch.  Lily clicks her tongue, saying, “Don’t, you’ll get your hands all dirty.  Here.” With a tap of her wand, Lily wordlessly spells the books and the girl’s hands clean of ketchup and dirt.  “Now apologize.”

“I did, Mum,” the girl mutters, but looks at Harry with genuine remorse.  “I really am sorry.  Won’t happen again.”

Harry takes his books back with a nod, unable to speak.

Lily is staring.  “I’m sorry, but have we met?” she asks, biting her lip.  “Only, you look so much like someone I used to know.  It’s uncanny.”

“Used to know?” Harry asks, feeling numb.  “Who?”

The facts are adding up in his head, which spins with questions.  Here was a Lily Potter, older than he’d ever known her to be, in the year 1998, with a daughter that shouldn’t exist.  The books on time travel feel like lead in his hands, scenarios of having somehow disrupted the timeline and creating an alternate reality where Lily and James had a daughter instead of a son, where they _lived…_

“Yes...” she continues, openly staring now.  “A boy from school, we were in the same House and year.  James Potter?” 

She says the name like it’s painful, but recovers quickly.  The girl raises her eyebrows, but otherwise seems bemused.  Harry’s smile freezes on his face.  Used to know?

He’s saved from answering by a familiar voice coming from behind Lily.  “And what disaster has fallen in your wake _this_ time, Asphodel?” 

“ _Dad._ ” 

The girl blushes scarlet, but Harry is staring at the man emerging from the store. 

He’s smiling.  He’s wearing different robes, along with a dark green Muggle _tie_ over a muted grey vest and crisp black undershirt, a prim and dignified combination of Wizard and Muggle attire.  His hair isn’t greasy, his skin isn’t sallow.   He has three parallel scars running down the side of his neck and face, into his collar, and he’s carrying a Slug and Jiggers package, but he is undeniably Severus Snape.

_Did she just say ‘dad?’_

Harry watches numbly as Snape (?) teases the girl, who blushes and shoves her hands into her pockets the way Harry does when he’s embarrassed.  There is actual humor in this Snape’s eyes.  And not even the malicious kind. 

Then Snape turns to him and balks at his face.  He stares for an awkward moment before he remembers himself and apologizes for his daughter’s actions.  Harry feels himself going on autopilot, once again going through the whole, “No its no bother, really,” routine with this bizarre version of Snape, a concerned parent. 

Maybe this is James in disguise.  Yeah.  That’s it.  That has to be it.  This is a bizarro world where James Potter needs to pretend to be Severus Snape in order to…catch Death Eaters.  Because he’s an Auror.  Yeah.  Okay.  Sure.

“Planning a trip to the past?” not-Snape intones, nodding toward the books in Harry’s hands.

“Er, no, not really.”

“Good,” Snape says.  “Because if you are, you shall find yourself in dire straits should you follow the advice of David Wibbly.”  Harry is confused until he realizes that one of his books is _Time Travel for Dummies_ by David Wibbly.

“Right.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

All thoughts of Snape being James in disguise fly out of Harry’s head with how _Snapely_ he is.  Ignoring the _smiling_ , he stands straight as a pole the way Snape does, he fidgets with his cuffs when he thinks no one is looking like Snape, he comes off as reserved and haughty in a way that can’t be faked.  (Though after spending a few days with the _real_ Snape, this one seems so expressive in comparison that Harry wonders if he’s about to break out into song.) 

Plus, the way that Snape is staring at him intensely is as unnerving as when his Snape does it. 

“We had best be on our way.  Again, my apologies,” not-Snape-can’t-be-Snape says and the family of three start to make their way down the stairs, smiling apologetically at Harry as they pass.

No.  They can’t leave.  They have to stay— _she_ has to stay.  Harry’s conflicting joy at being able to speak to his mother, and his dread that he’d somehow time travelled both himself and his parents’ marriage out of existence (and really, Mum, _Snape?_ ) makes him act without thinking. 

“So you mentioned James Potter?”

The name is like an incantation.  As one, Lily and Snape freeze.  Snape turns white.

Lily lays a comforting hand on Snape’s arm.  “I was just saying that he resembles James.  Looks just like him.”  She sounds almost apologetic.

“Yes, I had noticed,” Snape says quietly, staring at Harry but not meeting his eyes.  He looks like he wants to say more but stops himself.

“Were you related?” Lily asks.

Harry nods before he can think better of it.  “I never really knew him but, uh, yeah.  I’m a Potter.”

Lily looks surprised and sad at the same time.  Snape pales even further.

Lily’s sad stare is too difficult to keep eye contact with, so Harry pretends he’s adjusting his hold on his book, tilting his head in a way he knows his glasses will obscure his eyes, when Lily says, “I’m so sorry.  Of course you never knew him, he would’ve died before you were born.”

Died.  Dead.  James Potter was dead.

 _Not here, too,_ he thinks, grateful that his face is turned away.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, knowing that his words ring true.  “I would’ve liked to meet him.”

Lily favors him with a sympathetic, open look.  Snape looks stiffly away.  The girl looks between her parents in confusion.

“My name is Lily Evans,” Lily says, holding out a hand towards the girl.  “This is my daughter, Adel, and her father, Severus Snape.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Adel recites.

“The pleasure’s mine,” Harry says.  The other three are looking at him expectantly now.  Right.  He needs a name.  “Arthur.”  There.  Mr. Weasley was a pureblood and his name sounded common enough.  “Arthur Potter.”

“Arthur.  Well it’s lovely to meet you.  I’m surprised we haven’t met before.  Did you go to Hogwarts?”

“No, I was...homeschooled.  Raised by Muggles, as well.”

“Oh that’s unusual for a Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, “My parents died when I was a baby, so my mum’s sister took me in.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” his supposed-to-be-dead-mother says.  “Your mother’s family was Muggle then?”

 “Yeah.   That’s why I don’t know much about the rest of the family, or them me I guess.  You said you knew James?”

“Yes.  We were yearmates at Hogwarts.  He and I were both in Gryffindor.”  She smiles fondly.  “That James was one of a kind.  No one is likely to forget him, especially not me.”

Snape remains an immovable statue, but his head jerks in what might have been a nod or an irritated twitch.  Harry assumes it’s the latter.  Harry is suddenly filled with resentment for this happier Snape, who must have danced all over James’ grave.  Of course Snape would hate to be stuck here listening to people mourning him and remembering him fondly.

Adel shifts restlessly and tugs on her mother’s sleeve.  “Mum, the new Weatherbanes will be sold out soon,” she whispers urgently.

Snape, with palpable relief says, “I can take her.  Quality Quidditch Supplies is only open until 2pm today.”

Lily nods and turns to Harry with a smile.  “It really was a pleasure meeting you, and finding out there was one more Potter in the world after all.”  She tries to leave but Harry stops her.

“Wait.  I, um, I just.  It’s just that,” Harry casts about for a reason he should be stopping this family outing.  “It’s just you’re the first person I’ve met who knew my cousin personally.  I’d like to hear more about him.  If that’s alright?”

She bites her lip, but softens when she looks at him.  She exchanges a few words with Snape, who now looks concerned, but who leaves with Adel with little prodding.

“Shall we go for some tea then?”

 

Tea with Lily is wonderful.  She tells him all sorts of things about James he never knew, and a lot of things he did.  His talent for Quidditch and transfiguration, his popularity and wit.  She leaves out the bullying, but tells him about little moments of kindness and vulnerability that none of the Marauders thought worth mentioning.  The time he helped a first year study for her transfiguration exams.  How he shared his sweets with his housemate who had gotten nothing for Christmas.  How brave he was when his father passed away prematurely.

For the first time, Harry could see how his mother could have fallen in love with his father.  And, judging by the faraway look in her eyes as she tells her stories, wonders if she already had.

“You must have been closer relatives than you realize,” she says.  “You really do look just like him.  You even sound like him.”

“My relatives never told me much about the magical side of my family,” Harry answers honestly.  “The Muggles who raised me, my aunt and uncle, they didn’t like magic much.”

Lily shakes her head.  “That’s horrible, I’m so sorry.  I have some experience with that, as well.  My sister hates magic—I’m muggleborn, by the way.”

“I know.  I mean—I know how that is.  Sometimes I feel like a muggleborn myself, having grown up in the Muggle world.”

“But you were homeschooled in magic?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Harry says, praying that homeschooling is a thing that happens in the Wizarding world.  He has to change the subject.  “You said James was good at Quidditch?”

They talk about Quidditch for a while.  She tells him how James was Gryffindor’s star Chaser and Harry reveals that he played Seeker.  Lily’s eyes light up at that.

“I play Seeker, as well!”

“You play Quidditch?” Harry asks, astonished.

“Why?  Don’t I look the type?”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant...”

“Relax, I’m only teasing,” she winks.  “But yes, I played in my youth.  Never on any official teams, mind.  I’m not very competitive, and of course I had my studies to think of.”

“Did you ever play with James?”

“Oh yes,” she says, that faraway look entering her eyes again.  “We didn’t have much in common, James and I, but we had Quidditch.”

“Were you and he...sorry,” Harry backtracks.  “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s alright,” Lily smiles.  “We...yes.  We were close.  We dated for a year until he... Until 6th year.”

“When he died,” Harry guessed.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry but I...I don’t really know the story of how it happened.  Nobody ever talked about it.  My aunt and uncle certainly never did.”

“They probably didn’t know. Very few people do.”  Lily is quiet for a long time, and Harry is about to take back his question.  Then a determined look enters her eyes and she says, “And it’s not right.  It was wrong, back then, to cover up what happened.  Someone should know what James did.  I want to tell you.”

“Thank you.”

Lily casts a _tempus_ charm and says that she has to go, but they arrange to meet somewhere for lunch next week.  To make up for the lunch Adel had spilled.  After they’ve got a time and place, Lily goes.  Harry sits in the café for a long time after.

When Harry returns to the Shack, he has a bizarre urge to say, “Honey, I’m home.”  He doesn’t, though, which is probably for the best as Snape is not impressed with him when he comes back with no food and no ingredients. 

He goes to the Three Broomsticks and orders some lunch for himself and Snape to go.  He tosses Snape a paper bag and leaves him to it while he goes upstairs to read _Time Travel for Dummies_.  Maybe David Wibbly has some advice on how to undo changes made to the timeline.  The words blur and he can’t concentrate.  He falls asleep thinking about his mother, James Potter frozen in time at 16, and a little female Snape with eyes the same as Harry’s.

When Harry wakes up again, it’s dark.  He goes back downstairs to find Snape asleep, the empty paper bag crumpled up on the floor.  Harry refreshes Snape’s charms and busies himself with cleaning.  As he scrubs down his work bench, he feels the resentment toward not-Snape bubbling up again.

_Snape.  Of all people, Mum, Snape?_

The mystery of Snape and Lily, their impossible daughter, and James’ untimely death revolves around Harry’s head for the next week.  At some point, he’s ready to swear that Snape was the one who murdered James to get to Lily.

“Spit it out, Potter,” Snape sneers one day as Harry is changing his bandages.

“Spit what out?”

“Why you’ve been in a snit ever since you came back from Diagon Alley.”

“I have _not_ been in a _snit_ ,” Harry bites out.

“Ah, I should have known.  You have always had abysmal bedside manner.”

“You’re distracting me,” Harry says as he banishes the dirty bandages and conjures clean ones.

“Obviously it’s my fault that you’ve been so distracted you’ve neglected to tell me what date we’ve found ourselves in.”

Harry starts.  He’d completely forgotten to tell Snape.  “Hang on, let me get the papers.”  He finishes redressing Snape’s wounds and runs upstairs to retrieve the two newspapers he bought.  He runs back down, ignores Snape scolding him for stomping around like a herd of hippogriffs, and tosses the papers in Snape’s lap.  “I don’t know how it’s possible but we’re in 1998 still.”

Snape picks up the _Prophet_ and hums, tracing a finger along his thin lips.  He doesn’t seem too surprised, but who ever knows with Snape.  “And when you went to Diagon Alley, did you notice any changes?”

“Oh yeah, it’s completely different.  Or, rather, it’s the same.  I mean, there’s no boarded up shops or anything, it’s just like it was before Voldemort came back.  But that’s not all.”

Snape raises an eyebrow.  “Hm?”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Harry begins, and Snape’s lip curls, “is gone.  Like it never even existed.  And there was this café that I’m sure shouldn't have been there, and loads of other stuff was different.  I reckon that we messed with the timeline somehow and changed things.”

Harry considers for a moment telling Snape about Lily and Other Snape.  It could be an important clue to what happened to them. 

Snape smirks.  “Of course you would think that, wouldn’t you?”

“What?  What’s wrong with my theory?”

“Other than being completely lacking in common sense?”

“Alright fine then, what’s your theory?”

Snape leans back on his pillows and opens up the _Prophet_ to read.  “Explaining my theories to you would be like trying to teach a pigmy puff arithmetic.  Useless.”

Harry wants very badly to punch Snape in his big nose.  Forget telling him about Lily.  Harry doesn’t want to see Snape rejoicing at James’ death and the fact that he apparently got the girl in the end.  If it comes to that, Harry really will kill Snape and then where will they be?

“Fine.  If you’re so independent now, I’ll just leave you to it then.”  Harry leaves the Shack without a second glance.

The air in Hogsmeade is muggy and humid.  It’s a miserable day to be outside, but if Harry has to spend one more hour in Snape’s snarky presence he’s going to scream.  He finds himself sitting in the Hog’s Head with a pint.  For two weeks he’d taken care of the man, and what did he get in return?  Sarcasm and nastiness.  To think he’d even tried to thank the man.  Harry downs his pint and orders another.  Stupid git.

He starts thinking about the newspapers again.  The world seems to be at peace.  The Muggle paper was much the same as it would’ve been back home, minus the mention of mysterious terrorist attacks, but the _Prophet_ was completely different.  Had the second war never happened?  Without a Harry Potter, was Voldemort never able to come back in his Fourth Year?  Was he still out there, biding his time?  Was summoning Harry, Snape, and his old horcruxes from another timeline some sort of plot to give him a fresh start?

Harry wishes he could talk about his theories with someone, but all he has is Snape.  Snape, who would probably laugh in his face if he brought up any of his ideas.

 _Well, screw him_ , Harry thinks.  _I’ll figure it out on my own.  Then he’ll see._

Harry returns to the Shack long after the sun has gone down.  When he stumbles inside, he sees Snape, still awake, reading the Muggle paper by the light of his wand.

“Where the blazes have you been?” Snape demands.

“Out.”

“It’s past lunch and dinner, did you bring any food?”

“I ate outside already.”

“For _me_ , you imbecile.”

“No, cause you’re a git.”

As Harry ambles closer, Snape sniffs him and recoils.  “You’ve been drinking!”

“Have not,” Harry denies as he stumbles over nothing.  “Stop moving, would you?”

“An easy request as I am bedridden, Mr. Potter,” Snape sneers.  “And you are drunk.  Because you are an irresponsible, moronic twit who never thinks of the consequences of his actions.”

“Well, you’re mean,” is Harry’s comeback.  “And your nose is too big for your face.”

Snape raises an eyebrow.  “How astute of you, Potter.  Your powers of observation never cease to amaze.”

“Fuck you, Snape,” Harry begins moving toward the couch he’d been sleeping on.

“Drunk or not, I will not be spoken to that way by a-”

“A student?  I’m not your student anymore.  I’m your nurse.  You can’t even wipe your arse without my help so I’ll talk to you however I bloody want.”

“How _dare_ you-“

“It’s too loud down here, I’m going upstairs.”  He Apparates just in time for the stinging hex to miss him. 

 

When he goes downstairs the next morning, he’s greeted with a curious sight.  Snape seems to have transfigured his bed into a wheelchair and is trying to brew his own pain reliever potion.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks.

“What does it look like?” Snape sneers.  “You’ve been neglecting your brewing the last few days so I am taking matters into my own hands.  Your presence here is unnecessary.  Get out.”

Snape’s hands are shaking, he can barely grip the knife he’s using tightly enough to cut the roots.

“You should be in bed.  Here, let me do that.”

“I believe,” Snape’s silky voice turns menacing, “I told you to get. Out.”

Harry scratches his head.  “Look, if this is about the stuff I said last night-“

“Out!”  Snape blasts Harry halfway across the room with his wand, and Harry has to fight to keep his footing.

“Snape!”  Harry draws his wand.  “Are you mad?!”

Snape’s wand is shaking in his unsteady hand, and his breathing is becoming labored.  Harry knows that patients in hospital are banned from using magic for a reason.  It drains them too quickly, draws magic away from places in the body that need healing.  Snape’s about to undo about a week of progress.

Snape flicks his wand and suddenly the world is turned upside down.  Harry hangs there stupidly for a moment before he remembers the countercurse.  He crashes in a heap on the floor and groans.  He hears an echoing groan and a crash and pulls himself to his feet.  Snape has fallen out of his chair, unconscious.

“Stubborn bastard.”

Harry transfigures the wheelchair back into a bed and heaves Snape’s limp body onto it.  Snape is sweating, his skin clammy.  Harry curses and hopes Snape doesn’t have a fever.  He takes a washcloth and wipes down Snape’s brow. 

 

“Arthur, hello.  So glad you could make it.”

Seeing his mother once before hasn’t dulled the shock of seeing her alive.  She has laugh lines around her eyes, but otherwise looks younger than either Remus or Sirius did despite being the same age.  Harry puts it down to not having to live a life in poverty or fear.  Harry wants so badly to give her a hug, but instead just shakes her hand when offered.  They’re lead to their seats by a bored looking woman in a red suit.  The dim sum restaurant is bustling with Muggles, most of which are speaking Mandarin, and the way Harry and Lily are completely ignored is refreshing.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here.  It’s a little hectic, but this place is a family favorite for us,” Lily says.

“It’s no problem.  Where is the family, by the way?”

“At home with Severus.  He’s a busy man, but never turns down babysitting duty, bless him.”

Harry pauses at the mental image of Snape, the babysitter.  “And what does your husband do?”

Lily laughs, “Oh no, no!  Severus isn’t my husband.  Though I can see how you’d be confused, yes.”

Harry is very confused.  “But I thought he was Adel’s father?”

“He is,” Lily blushes.  “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Muggle practice of using donors?”

Harry stares blankly.  It takes him a few seconds before he’s blushing, too.  “Oh.”

“It’s strange, I know,” Lily says ruefully.  “But I always wanted to be a mother, and I just...after James, I never really found anyone who...well.  So I asked Severus, and he agreed.  Though he’s so much more than just a donor now, he’s truly Adel’s father.”

Relief washes through Harry.  “So the two of you aren’t...?”

“Heavens, no.”  Lily giggles.  “I’m not exactly Severus’ type.”

Harry, in a much better mood now that he knew Snape wasn’t shagging his mom, takes a sip of his green tea.  Lily gets them dumplings from a passing cart, as well as some slimy looking shrimp dish that Harry is very wary about.

“I’m surprised at how calm Diagon is nowadays,” Harry ventures.

“Why wouldn’t it be calm?”

“Well, because of You-Know-Who,” Harry says meaningfully.  Fear of saying the name and attracting the Snatchers hasn’t worn off quite yet.

Lily blinks.  “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure who you mean.”

Harry stares at her.  “You know.  The Dark Lord.  He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”  Harry feels a little silly having to spell it out like this, but maybe Lily’s being purposefully obtuse?

Lily only smiles and asks, “Is that some sort of band?”

“Voldemort,” Harry leans in and whispers.  Instinct has him looking over his shoulder right after.

“Excuse me?” Lily asks, completely bewildered.

Oh.

_Oh._

Harry laughs, “Sorry, don’t mind me.  Yeah, a band.  Is what that was.  Voldemort.  My favorite band.”

Harry’s mind is going at a mile an hour.  She doesn’t know who Voldemort is.  _She doesn’t know who Voldemort is._

“Oh,” Lily smiles, “and they’re playing in London then?  What kind of music do they play?”  Harry and Lily munch on their dumplings while chatting about ‘Arthur’s’ favorite alternative rock band, Voldemort. 

Harry struggles with the chopsticks and eventually just asks for a fork.  There’s something Harry wants to ask Lily, and he figures he might as well start off with that since he’s not sure he’s ready to talk about his father’s death.

“Do you know if my da—cousin had any friends?  Other than you, I mean.  I have some, er, pictures.  Family photos that maybe they’d like to look through.”  Harry ached to see Sirius again.  Remus, too.

Lily hesitates and takes a sip of her tea.  She sighs.  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Arthur.”

With a sinking feeling, Harry asks, “Why is that?”

“It has to do with what I came to tell you about today,” she says, looking pained.  “It’s time I told you.  About how James died.

“You see, Albus Dumbledore, the Hogwarts Headmaster, decided that it would be better if no one ever learned the truth of what happened.  In all his wisdom, he thought that keeping it a secret would protect the parties involved, so he kept it from everyone.  Everyone except the students who were there, their parents, the staff at the time, and me.  And I only know because Severus told me. 

“In a way, this is Severus’ story to tell.  But we both agreed that I would be the one to tell you.  I hope you understand, Arthur.  Severus is the best man I know.  But he’s...afraid.  He’s always been afraid to face this.”

Harry wondered just what Snape could be afraid of.  Maybe he really did kill James.  The Snape from Harry’s timeline may have loved Lily and protected Harry, but this wasn’t that same man.  Harry prepares himself for the worst.

“I guess I should start with Severus,” Lily says.  “James and his friends didn’t...get along with Severus.  They had a...rivalry.  The four of them versus Sev. You see, Severus was in Slytherin while the rest of us were in Gryffindor.  I don’t know how familiar you are with House politics, but they can get very nasty.”

“But you were friends with Sna—with Severus?” Harry asks, the name feeling strange on his tongue.

“Yes, and it often put me in a difficult position.  Caught between my friendship with Severus and my loyalties to my House.  Of course, I’ve always thought the House rivalries were rubbish.  James saw it differently, though.  He and his friends never let up on Severus, not even after James promised me he’d stop.”

“I’m sorry, but four against one?  That doesn’t sound very fair.”

Lily looks apologetic.  “No, it wasn’t.  Your cousin _was_ a good person.  For the most part.  But he had a mean streak.  And it was the biggest point of contention between the two of us for the first few years we were at Hogwarts.  To tell the truth, I hated his guts.  Severus was beside himself when I started dating him.”

“Then why did you?”

Lily pauses to sip her tea, lost in thought.  "James...had a way about him.  He could charm you against your will.  I told you we used to play Quidditch together, yes?  He had this Invisibility Cloak and he used to sneak out at night to fly over the Forbidden Forest.  It was so unbelievably reckless, and I was a Prefect, so of course I put a stop to it.  Or I tried to.  I shouldn’t have, but I went with him and every week we would fly all night, under the light of the moon.”

Harry can just imagine it.  His parents, flying their broomsticks above the trees, moonlight in their hair, laughing at the danger of it all.  He smiles at the image.  “Sounds romantic.”

“It was,” Lily smiles back.  Her voice takes on a regretful tone.  “I kept it from Severus, of course.  I felt horribly guilty, seeing his tormentor behind his back.  But Severus had also changed while we were at school.  He was hanging out with the wrong sort and our friendship was on thin ice.  By the end of fifth year, we had this enormous falling out.  It tore me apart.

“And then there was James.  He was always there for me after Severus and I fell out.  His cruelty, his arrogance, it all started to fade away bit by bit and he became kinder, humbler.  I like to think that I was a good influence on him, but I really do think that he changed.  He was a good boy, Arthur.  He would have been a great man.

“Unfortunately, the hostility between Severus and James only got more vicious.  Severus was hurt and angry, and James was protective of me.  And James, for all that he was charming and kind, could be quite mean-hearted when it came to people different from him.”  Lily’s gaze focuses on something faraway.  “Although, that wasn’t always the case.  I never knew it at the time, though I suspected, but one of James’ best friends was quite different.

“For this story to make sense, I have to tell you about his best friends.  Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and Sirius Black.  They called themselves Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.  Silly isn't it?  It was like they were part of this secret club, always rushing off and disappearing.  Having mysterious adventures behind everyone else’s backs.  Breaking rules left and right and always, somehow, getting away with it.  Drove McGonagall up the wall, but I knew that she was soft on them. Her star pupils.  James could transfigure a wardrobe into a wildebeest without even blinking.  Sirius and Remus were almost as good.  Peter, not so much, but he worked hard enough to keep up.  It turned out they were better at transfiguration than any of us could imagine. They were animagi.”

Harry pretends to be shocked.  “What, all four of them?  What were they?”

Lily smirks.  “The clue is in the names.  They were bragging about it all that time and none of us caught on.  Wormtail was a rat.  Padfoot was a dog.  And Prongs, your cousin, was a stag.”

Harry is smiling, though he already knows this.  He loves hearing his mother praise his father’s skills, loves hearing her talk about her memories of him. 

Finally, he asks what he knows he’s meant to.  “What was Moony?”

Lily looks incredibly sad for a moment before she starts up again.  “Remus,” she remembers fondly, “was different.  In much the same way Severus was, actually.  He was quiet.  Studious.  But also sickly and poor.  Even though they were housemates, James and Remus gave him the cold shoulder at first.  They looked down on him.  For his social status.  For his strangeness.  But one day, they ganged up on Peter, and Remus stood up to them.  Little, frail Remus Lupin got in their faces and called them arrogant toads.  The four of them got into a fist fight and lost Gryffindor about 100 housepoints.  After that, they were as thick as thieves.

“I always wondered at that.  That they could see the good in Remus but not Severus.”  Lily chuckles ruefully.  “Severus didn’t make it easy, though.  Whereas Remus was gentle and sweet, Sev was...hard to get along with.”

“What was Remus sick with?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.

Lily takes a deep breath and says, “He was a werewolf.  Bitten as a boy.  Dumbledore made an exception, letting him take classes at Hogwarts, on one condition.  That he transform in a place far away from students, some place nobody ever dared to go.  The passage to this place was guarded by the Whomping Willow.  It was supposed to be safe.”

Harry has a terrible feeling in his stomach.  “Supposed to be?”

Lily shakes her head.  “They were idiots.  Brave idiots.  Of course they were, they’re Gryffindors.  You see, Arthur, the real reason that James and his friends became animagi was love.  Remus’ secret would have scared away any other ordinary wizards, but not those three.  Not James.  He and his friends became animagi to keep Remus company during his painful transformations.  In secret once a month, they followed him to his transformation place, where they would chase each other as animals, turning a nightmare into a refuge.”  Lily pauses, “They were so young.  And so stupid.  All of them, Sirius, Severus, Peter, even James.  They let their prejudices get the best of them and...and it led to tragedy.”

Harry feels cold.  He can guess what comes next.  He wants to stop her, but he can’t speak.  She continues.

“Sirius may have hated Severus even more than James did.  I never understood why.  One day, in anger, Sirius let Severus overhear how to bypass the Whomping Willow on the night of the full moon.  Severus, petty and wanting to catch the Marauders in the act of breaking school rules, went to the Willow.  He entered the tunnel on his own, not knowing what was waiting for him on the other side.

“James found out.  He tried to stop Severus.  But...when he got there, Sev had already gone through the trap door, had already been scratched.”

Harry sucks in a breath.  This hadn’t happened in his time.  He tries to picture a teenage Snape, staring down the werewolf he remembered from his third year.  But maybe a younger, healthier, deadlier version.  Then his young father emerging from the trapdoor, throwing his Cloak down, luring Remus away...

“Severus was cornered.  He would have died.  But James, he transformed.  He fought the wolf, but Remus, who’d already smelled human blood, wouldn’t stop going after Severus.  The stag was large and powerful, but no match for a werewolf in the throes of bloodlust.  Severus was able to hex Remus, stunning him long enough to go back out through the trap door, James following after.

“Severus has told me how he was horrified, terrified watching the stag shrink into a boy before him, covered in bites and wounds.  How he dragged James with him through the tunnel.  They were both covered in cursed blood, but Severus levitated James out of the Willow, keeping pressure on the wounds as best as he could.  When they emerged, Sirius was there.  They tried every healing spell they knew, even some Dark ones.  They sent Peter to get the mediwitch, Madame Pomfrey, but…it was too late.

“The combination of the blood loss and the werewolf’s bite were beyond what magic could fix.  James bled out on the grass beneath the Whomping Willow.”

Harry and Lily both take a moment to compose themselves.  Their tea is getting cold.

This man may not have been his father, but Harry still feels the loss keenly.  It’s as if he died all over again.  It isn’t fair.

Lily continues, “James saved Severus’ life that day.  A boy he hated.  And it’s because, beneath it all, he _was_ brave and noble.  That’s what I want you to remember about him.”

“I will,” is all Harry can say.

“That day changed Severus,” Lily was saying.  “Their childish rivalry had the ultimate consequence.  Sev’s never quite forgiven himself for his part in James’ death.  He’s always felt a debt of gratitude to him that he’s never been able to repay.”

“It wasn’t Severus’ fault.”  _It was Sirius’,_ a traitorous’ part of Harry’s brain suggests.  This is what could’ve happened all those years ago when Sirius pulled that stupid prank.  Harry thinks of his godfather, and he can’t feel anger.  Can only see his surprised face as it passed through the Veil.  Harry shuts his eyes against the emotion welling in him.

“Severus feels differently.”

“Well, he shouldn’t.”

Lily smiles at him and doesn’t disagree.  “Dumbledore decided that for Remus’ protection, the truth of James’ fate should be kept hidden.  James’ mother agreed, though I don’t think she ever quite forgave Dumbledore or Sirius for what happened.  She may have blamed Severus too, but I think she thought his injury and trauma was punishment enough.”

Harry belatedly remembers the three parallel scars down Snape’s face, so much like Bill’s.

“What about Remus?” Harry asks.

Lily looks away.  “Of course, Remus felt responsible-“

“But it wasn’t _his_ fault either!” Harry interrupts.  “He’s just as much a victim as my—my cousin.”

Lily looks incredibly surprised and pleased at his defense of Remus.  “Yes, Remus did nothing wrong.  Mrs. Potter never blamed him, either.  She loved Remus. That’s why she agreed to the secrecy.  To protect him.  If the Ministry had found out, they might have taken him to Azkaban or had him...put down,” Lily says with disgust.  “Not as many wizards are as understanding of werewolves as you.  James would have liked you.  Remus, too.”

Harry feels a swell of pride, but senses there’s more to the story.  He waits for Lily to continue, though she looks reluctant.  She sighs heavily and says, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Remus, he…. He couldn’t live with knowing what he’d done to his best friend.  He committed suicide that summer, just two months after James.”

Harry wants to get up and go—somewhere.  He doesn’t know where, but he can’t be here anymore.  His mother’s teary eyes keep him pinned.

He reminds himself that he’s in a Muggle restaurant in another timeline.  He reminds himself that none of this _really_ happened.  It’s not real.  He can _fix_ it.  Even a world where his parents were killed by Voldemort is better than _this._

“Are you alright?” Lily asks, concern swimming in her green eyes.  Harry waves it away.

“I’m just...taking in your story.  I never expected something like this.”

“No, I imagine you didn’t.”  Lily pauses.  She catches Harry’s eye and Harry can see strength there.  “I’m telling you this because someone should know who James really was.  A hero, and a good friend.  If James hadn’t...” Lily’s voice catches, but she composes herself.  “If he hadn’t died for Severus, I would not have the family I do today.  Maybe I’d have a different one, but we can’t stay stuck in the past.  With his one selfless act, he’s touched so many lives.  Please remember that.”

 

Harry almost forgets Snape’s potions ingredients again, he’s so distracted.  He picks them up in a daze and apparates back to the Shack.

“And where have you been?” Snape asks in a bored tone.

Harry distractedly holds up the bag of ingredients and heads to the work table to start brewing, as has become his daily routine.

“Eloquent as always, I see.”

Harry wordlessly starts prepping his cauldron.  Snape watches him from the bed with a raised eyebrow.

“Did something happen while you were out?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If it’s relevant to our situation…”

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s…personal.”

“Ah,” Snape sneers.  “Someone hurt your feelings on the way to the store did they?”

“Get bent, Snape.”

“Way ahead of you.”

Harry doesn’t have any clue what that’s supposed to mean but he’s already done with the conversation.  He tunes Snape out and begins brewing in earnest.  He is so fixated on what he’s doing, he doesn’t realize he’s done until he hears Snape’s hum of approval.

“That will do, Potter.”

Harry looks at Snape in suspicion.  This is the first kind word the man has ever said about his brewing, if it can be called kind.

“Thanks…”

Harry thinks he sees hesitation in Snapes eyes and holds his breath.  But Snape doesn’t take it back, only continues to study Harry with glittering eyes, making Harry feel incredibly like a science experiment.  So Harry distracts himself with making some more pain relieving potion.  He and Snape spend the rest of the day in relative silence. 

Harry is cleaning up for the day when he sees it.  The enormous dark stain on the floor of the Shack that he could never get rid of.  

He remembers his mother’s story and almost throws up.

That night when he moves his things up to the second floor to sleep in the one bedroom with the constantly leaking roof, Snape sneers at him from his bed.

“Sick of me already, Potter?”

“No, it’s not that-“

“Get out, then.” 

Harry wants, for a moment, to share the story with Snape.  But then Harry would have to mention Lily, and the other Snape, and the daughter, and that’s a whole can of worms Harry isn’t ever going to be ready to open.  So he lets Snape think what he wants and sets up camp upstairs.

 

After the last week, Snape has read through the two papers Harry’s given him enough times that he’s surely memorized them by now.  Harry goes out to get him more and he devours them as well without a word.  Finally he says, “I can find no mention of the Dark Lord in any of these.”

“That’s because nobody knows who Voldemort is here.”

Snape stares at him and oh.  He’d forgotten to tell him about that, hadn’t he?

“What did you do?”

“I talked to some people—I’m an idiot—yes, I know.  But it was a risk worth taking.”

Snape nods begrudgingly and Harry’s surprised he gets even that.  “What happened?”

“I said his name and they thought I was talking about a Muggle band.”

Snape’s lip twitches.  “I see.  This is useful.  You have my permission to continue investigating in this way.”

“Gee thanks.”

Snape would have to rely on Harry’s investigation skills.  He was bedridden for at least another week.  In addition to antivenin and pain reliever, Harry had to brew nerve and muscle regenerative potions to help rehabilitate Snape’s body, which had been immobile for three weeks now.  It makes Harry nervous, knowing that Snape’s future depends on his brewing skills, but he seems to be doing alright so far.

Meanwhile, Snape still isn’t sharing any of his theories with Harry, though Harry often sees him staring intently at the newspapers like they hold the secret to the universe.   Sometimes when Harry tells him about something he saw in town, Snape gets a knowing glint in his eye that makes Harry want to slap him and demand an explanation.  Snape also constantly sneers at the time travel books Harry’s been collecting.  But what else but time travel could explain a world with no Voldemort, with a living Lily Evans?

And that’s another avenue worth investigating, Harry thinks.  The mystery of Lily and her family had to be connected to all of this somehow.  This, Harry tells himself, is why he has begun spending his afternoons in Diagon Alley, hoping to catch another glimpse of his mother.

He isn’t disappointed.  She shows up more than a few times, sometimes with Adel, sometimes alone.  When Adel is around, he treats them to ice cream.  Sometimes Other Snape (who he’s taken to calling ‘Mr. Snape’) is there.  Harry just exchanges greetings and skitters away when that happens.  Mr. Snape also seems similarly eager to get out of Harry’s presence on these occasions.

“You can’t go wrong with a Nimbus,” Harry tells Adel one day while her father is off somewhere running errands.  “They’re sturdy, reliable...”

“Old.” Adel makes a face at the Nimbus 2002 Harry is holding up.  “Those things are ancient.  They’ve got nothing on the Weatherbane.”  Adel points at the shiny new broom in the shop window.  “Dad wouldn’t let me get one last time, but they’ve finally restocked!”

“Your dad made the right call.  Those things are overrated and overpriced.”

Adel scowls.  “Have you flown better?”

Harry smirks.  “I used to have a Firebolt.”

Adele’s jaw drops.  “No you didn’t!”

“I did.  And before that I had a Nimbus.  I loved that old broom.”  Harry jerks a thumb at the window display and shakes his head.  “Broom like that will only weigh you down.  Nobody needs charms to repel bugs and rain—you can just cast them on yourself.”

“I guess,” Adel says, looking thoughtful.  “And it is cheaper...that’ll be easier on Dad.”

Adel turns away from the fancy display and Harry pats himself on the back.  He’s not bad at this big brother lark.

Adel had warmed up to him greatly.  At first she had been shy and somewhat awkward around him.  But after sneaking her a few sweets behind her mother’s back, she’d started opening up.  The girl was scarily observant and just a tad bit manipulative.  Harry could definitely see her in Slytherin.

Come to think of it… “Shouldn’t you still be in school?  It’s only end of May.”

Adel shakes her head.  “No, didn’t you hear?  Hogwarts is closed until September.”

“Oh.”  That would explain the lack of teachers.  Now that Harry thinks about it, he’s been incredibly lucky not to have gotten caught stealing from Mr. Snape’s stores by now.  “How come?”

“There was an accident.  Someone died.”

Sounds like a normal year at Hogwarts, then.  “Do you know who it was?”

Adel’s mouth opens in time for Mr. Snape to come striding into the store with a sweep of dark green robes.  His eyes go immediately to Harry, who nods at him in greeting.  Mr. Snape nods back, clearly uncomfortable.  Ignoring Harry, he turns instead to his daughter.

“So,” Mr. Snape says, “have we reached a verdict?”

“Could I please get a Nimbus, dad?”

Mr. Snape raises an eyebrow. “A wise choice.  I must admit, I had been expecting you to make yet another argument for the Weatherbane.”

Adel folds her hands in front of herself primly.  “After a thorough discussion with Arthur, I’ve decided that the disadvantages of that particular model far outweigh the benefits.”

Mr. Snape sends a surprised glance Harry’s way.  “Then I believe I have you to thank for preventing this considerable blow to my wallet.”

Harry smiles and to his surprise Mr. Snape quirks his lips in return.  It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the first attempt at one Harry’s ever seen either Snape make.  “I’m here to help.”

“Your help is...appreciated.”

After Mr. Snape rings up his purchase, shrinking the neatly wrapped Nimbus and putting it away in his front pocket, Adele thanks Harry for the ice cream she and Lily had been treated to the other day and wonders out loud if there was a way to repay him.  Mr. Snape’s eyebrow twitches as he asks Harry if he’d like to join them for ice cream, his treat.  Harry tries very hard not to laugh at the man, so completely wrapped around the finger of a twelve year old. 

Harry doesn’t quite know what to make of Mr. Snape.  A part of him still wants to blame him for his father’s death, but a bigger part of him has come to pity the man for his role in the incident.  Maybe if he’d been more like Harry’s Snape, it would be easier to hold a grudge.  But Mr. Snape has none of the malevolent energy Harry has come to expect from his own Snape.  His face may still be set in a perpetual sneer, but his black eyes are softer, warmer.  He still holds himself stiffly, but without the air of paranoia that should keep him a tightly coiled spring.

Physically, the differences are also startling.  The hair, for one, is always clean.  No doubt Lily’s influence.  Not only is Mr. Snape’s hair washed, but it’s also long enough to be pulled back into a neat ponytail, held back with a velvet ribbon, like it is now.  Harry can’t believe he’s thinking it, but Snape almost looks…good.  He catches himself staring more than once.

Sure, his teeth are still uneven, his nose is still hooked, and the man will never be considered traditionally handsome.  But, Harry thinks as he studies Mr. Snape’s features over a cone of pumpkin-cinnamon ice cream, he can begin to see a sort of dark appeal to the severe profile.  His eyes, for example, gleam with intelligence.  He's always looking, always watching.  He is watching Harry out of the corner of his eye now.

They sit for a spell on the bench outside Fortescue’s, Adel preoccupied with her sundae sitting between them.  Mr Snape, of course, had refrained from getting an ice cream, and instead perches himself on the end of the bench, like a great awkward bat that found itself out in the daylight.  He sends a few glances Harry’s way, as if trying to decide something.

Finally, “It has come to my attention, Mr… Potter,” Mr. Snape begins in that deep voice of his, “That you have been spending quite a lot of time in Diagon Alley these days.  Is there any particular reason for that?”

“Been getting some shopping done,” Harry lies.  For all Mr. Snape knows, Harry’s pockets could be filled with shrunken trinkets.  “I’ve noticed you and your family hanging around Diagon a lot, as well.  Live in London, do you?”

“Lily does.  She enjoys the bustle of the city.”

“And you?”

Mr. Snape’s lips quirk in that almost smile that makes him look years younger.  “I have found that privacy is more valuable to me than the convenience of proximity.”

“But you still come here often.”

Adel speaks without looking up, “’Family is most important of all.’  Right, dad?”

Mr. Snape’s eyes fall on his daughter and soften.  “Just so.”  Harry didn’t know that Snape’s features were physically capable of arranging themselves into anything resembling _fondness_ , but here we are.  The closest Harry remembers ever seeing his Snape look like that was in the Pensieve, watching young Snape gaze lovingly at Lily.  A part of Harry aches for his Snape and the knowledge that he has probably never looked this way at anyone in his life.

Mr. Snape turns back to him.  “You have yet to explain why a young man such as yourself would elect to spend his valuable summer holidays retracing his steps from the Cauldron to Gringotts every day from noon to three.”

Bugger.  “Been keeping an eye on me, have you?”

“Your unusual behavior may have caught my interest,” says Mr. Snape with calculating eyes, “Particularly as you seem to be determined to ingratiate yourself to my daughter.”

“Dad,” Adel groans, turning red.  “Don’t.  You’ll scare him away like all of mom’s other boyfriends.”

Harry’s ice cream goes down the wrong tube and he ends up bent over, coughing.  “Oh Merlin, no.  _No_!  I’m not trying to—just, no.”

Mr. Snape raises an eyebrow.  “Quite a vehement denial, Mr. Potter.”

Harry waves his hands, face contorting in disgust because _ew_. “I swear, I’m not interested.  Not even a little.  I don’t even like witches.”  Harry blurts it out, face aflame.  It was something he’d worked out with Ginny in Sixth Year and it wasn’t exactly a secret, but he wasn’t in the habit of sharing that fact with everyone he met.  Mr. Snape’s cheeks darken, but other than that shows no reaction.

Adel, on the other hand, stares at Harry as if realizing something important.  She looks at Harry, then at her father.  Then she looks at Harry again, nods, and winks.  Harry doesn’t know what to do in response so he offers her a weak smile.

“Dad,” she says, eyes never leaving Harry’s.  “Arthur was telling me earlier that he hadn’t had a chance to eat _all_ day.”  Harry had said nothing of the sort.  “And I’m really peckish.  Why don’t we all go try that new special Tom’s been pushing at the Cauldron?”

Mr. Snape looks at the girl with eyes suspiciously narrowed.  “I’m sure Mr. Potter has places to be.  We’ve taken up enough of his time.”

“Arthur doesn’t have anywhere to be, right?” Adel winks at Harry, who, bewildered, nods his head.  “See?”

Mr. Snape scrutinizes his daughter in silence, no doubt trying to figure out her motives.  He glances up at Harry, who shrugs.  Finally he sighs and says, “Would you like to join us for a _quick_ lunch at the Leaky Cauldron?”

Harry should probably say no.  He’d only meant to stop by and talk to Adel for a little bit anyway before getting back to his Snape.  But something makes him stay.  “It would be my pleasure.”

When they sit down for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, Adel immediately hides behind her menu and becomes strangely silent.  This leaves Harry and Mr. Snape to stare at each other awkwardly across the table with no buffer. 

Mr. Snape, Harry absently thinks, looks quite good in green.

“So, er, what do you do?” Harry flounders for something to talk about, feeling incredibly lame.

Mr. Snape, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice Harry’s awkwardness, too consumed with his own.  “I teach.”

“At Hogwarts?” Harry asks, trying to sound curious.

Mr. Snape tilts his head in acknowledgement.  “Lily tells me you are homeschooled.”

“Yes, since I was eleven.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Well, er…” Harry, knowing nothing of what magical homeschooling is like, tries to stay as close to the truth as possible.  “My favorite subject was Defense...”

They chat about Defense until their food arrives.  Adel tucks into her milkfish while shooting the two of them quick glances every now and then, still barely saying a word.  The lunch should be awkward.  It is awkward.  At first.  Mr. Snape still seems strangely skittish around Harry, and Harry still doesn’t know how he feels about the man.  But one thing is certain—he’s a hell of a lot easier to get along with than regular Snape.  Without the constant barrage of barbs, Harry finds Mr. Snape to be darkly funny and wickedly intelligent.  It’s a heady combination, and before he knows it they’ve been talking for an hour and they’re saying goodbye.

“Until we meet again, Mr. Potter.”

“Yeah.  Until then.”

And so it becomes routine.  The next day, Harry sees Lily and they spend an afternoon together.  Then another.  Sometimes he grabs lunch with Mr. Snape.  Soon, Harry finds himself spending more time in Diagon Alley than in the Shack, and his Snape’s beginning to notice.  Things have been weird between them since Harry met Lily.  Scratch that—things have always been weird, but now they’re weirder.  It’s like Harry doesn’t know where he stands with Snape. 

They aren’t student and teacher, but they’re also not quite equals.  They’re no longer enemies, but they aren’t friends.  It’s like they’re stuck in a limbo of stilted conversation peppered with half hearted insults.  Harry thinks he’d like them to be friends, but he doesn’t know where to begin.

Besides, it’s so much easier being with Lily and Adel.  Even Mr. Snape doesn’t leave Harry feeling keyed up and exhausted at the same time like his Snape does.  Nowadays, Harry prefers to spend as little time at the Shack as possible, only attending to his caregiving and potions brewing duties before he’s off again to London.

“Will you be fine here alone?” Harry asks for the umpteenth time before he leaves.

“Oh yes,” Snape smiles mysteriously.  “Run along, Potter.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

 

Harry apparates, leaving Snape alone in the Shrieking Shack.  For a moment, Snape enjoys the peace and quiet of a Gryffindor-less space.  Finally.

With a complicated twist of his wand, he transfigures his bed into a wheelchair.  Time to get to work.


	4. The More They Stay the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to make the chapters a bit shorter so they're easier to read. I went back and knocked off 2k words from the previous three, but it's still a monster, haha. That's why this chapter is a bit late. Thanks so much for your patience.
> 
> FYI, every fourth chapter will be Severus' POV.

Severus has rarely had a moment’s respite from Potter’s insufferable company.  The only relief comes in the afternoons when Potter would disappear to do Merlin knew what in Diagon Alley before returning with dinner.  And more often than not, Severus finds himself tiring too quickly to do more with his Potter-free time than nap.

And when Potter is there, he’s endlessly hovering over Severus, flitting about nervously like a Golden Snitch.  Always staring at him with wide, concerned eyes.  It’s as if the boy thinks Severus is made of glass. 

“Cease your mothering,” Severus says one morning when Potter stands too long at his bedside, sponge in hand.  “The situation is trying enough without you hovering at my elbow like a young crup.”

Potter bites his lip and holds up the yellow sponge.  “It’s just that your wounds need to be cleaned and redressed, and I know there’s a spell for the cleaning part, but the books all say that doing it the traditional way is better-“

“Oh very well,” Severus concedes.  Potter gives a little sigh, as if he’s the one suffering through this exchange, and wets the sponge with a spell.  Gingerly, he starts dabbing at the tender skin around Severus’ wound.  The contact burns.  Severus refuses to wince.

“After this, I’ll apply the balm.  That should help with the pain,” Potter says, though Severus didn’t ask.

Severus grunts in response.  He’d instructed Potter to brew the balm himself and the resulting product had been surprisingly acceptable.  Potter scoops a dollop of the healing balm in his hand and gently smooths it over the wound.  Severus feels immediate relief and lets out an involuntary groan.  Potter’s fingers twitch momentarily before continuing their soothing circles.

“Read anything interesting lately?” Potter nods to the newspaper in Severus’ lap.

Severus feels his eyes slip closed.  That balm is really very well brewed.  “It seems we have a new Minister for Magic.  Or an old one, if the paper is to be believed.  This will be his third term.”

“Scrimgeour?” Potter suggests.

Severus opens his eyes for this.  He needs to see Potter’s reaction.  “Lucius Malfoy.”

Potter, as expected, recoils, revulsion clear on his newly pale face.  “Malfoy?!”

“Indeed.”

Potter’s fingers are frozen on Severus’ neck.  “But...but how?”

Severus rolls his eyes.  “I assume he won the popular vote.  Isn’t that how it usually goes?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Potter huffs.  “I mean—how could people have voted for him?  He’s a Death Eater!”

Severus raises an eyebrow.  “No Dark Lord...”

“No Death Eaters,” Potter finishes, blinking stupidly as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before now.  His fingers resume their stroking and Severus has to hold in a sigh of pleasure.  “That doesn’t mean Malfoy’s suddenly turned good, though.  I bet he’s just as vile here as he is in our time.”

Severus doesn’t snort at the mention of Potter’s ridiculous time travel theory.  Barely.  “Of that there is little doubt.  Lucius has always desired the Minister’s seat.  I shudder to think what he’s done with all that power.”

Potter shudders, too.  The boy really is too open with his emotions.  “All the more reason to get back and fix this timeline.”

This time Severus does laugh.  Potter looks affronted. 

“You keep laughing at my ideas but you never want to share yours!”

“My thoughts on the matter are none of your business,” Severus says just to see how Potter will react.  He is not disappointed.  A red flush rises on Potter’s cheeks, green eyes bright with outrage.  The sight of Potter’s indignation always puts Severus in a good mood.

“Of course it’s my business, we’re stuck here together!”

When Severus doesn’t respond and instead pretends to be very interested in the dirt under his nails, Potter grits his teeth and finishes tending to his wound, grumbling to himself all the while.  When Severus’ neck is wrapped in clean, fresh bandages, the brat stomps up the stairs to the second floor without a word.  Severus is pleased to have the ground floor to himself again.  It’s becoming increasingly difficult to scare the boy off with cruel words and scathing glares.  Severus is glad to see, however, that Potter is still a child underneath it all, still so easily riled and quick to run.

His reprieve is short lived, though, because Potter is only gone a few minutes before he’s jogging down the stairs again, a bundle of black cloth in his arms.

“I got you something,” he says, shifting nervously on his feet.  He holds up the folded bundle in front of his chest like a shield.  “From Madame Malkin’s.”

Severus is taken aback.  Not only that Potter has managed to steal enough money to afford such a purchase, but that he’s bought something for Severus.  Potter’s eyes flicker between the bundle and Severus.  Wordlessly, Severus holds out a hand and Potter deposits the cloth into his waiting arms.

“Your old robes were beyond repair what with the blood and all...”

The new robes are fairly similar to the ones he’d worn at Hogwarts.  Folded between the voluminous black fabric are a many buttoned dress shirt and trousers, both in black.

“I tried to get it as close to what you usually wear as possible,” Potter says, still hovering at Severus’ shoulder.

“My measurements?” Severus asks.

Potter bites his lip.  “I told Madame Malkin I was getting a present for Professor Snape of Hogwarts.  I figured there was a chance she had your measurements on record.  Because, you know, there’s probably a version of you in this time, too, right?”  Potter shifts nervously, though Severus cannot think of a reason why he should be nervous.  He’s shown a surprising amount of initiative.

A thank you sits on the tip of Severus’ tongue, but he can’t bear to voice it.  Instead he shakes out the dress shirt and begins to put it on.  When he tries to lift his arms above his head, though, the muscles contract painfully and he curls into himself, gasping.

“Here, let me,” Potter fusses.  It’s a blow to Severus’ pride when he has to allow Potter to guide his arms through the sleeves, one side and then the other.  He refuses to let Potter button up the front, though the boy moves as if to do just that.  Next are the trousers.  With Potter’s arm around his back, Severus sits on the edge of his bed.  He watches Potter as he carefully slots Severus’ bare legs into the garment, waiting for a cruel taunt or a laugh at his expense.  But the boy is only patient and gentle, and it makes Severus supremely uncomfortable to have to acknowledge that.

He leans on Potter, hands on the other man’s shoulders, as he “stands” to fasten the trousers around his waist.  Potter’s hands are uncomfortably close to Severus’ loins, and Severus feels his cheeks heat traitorously.

“All done,” Potter announces, helping him back into his bed.  “I’m going to head into Diagon again.”

“Have a pressing engagement, do you?”  Severus watches with interest as the boy ducks his head and avoids eye contact.  Interesting.

“Nah, just doing some more investigating.  I’ll be back with dinner.  Can I get you anything?”

“A paper,” Severus suggest, adding as an afterthought, “And be careful.”

Potter grins at him, and wasn’t that peculiar?  When had the boy begun freely offering him easy smiles?

“Always am.  See you tonight, Snape.”

The boy apparates just as Severus grumbles, “That’s _Professor_ Snape to you.”

If Severus is honest with himself, something he is loathe to do, the boy is doing a surprisingly tolerable job at keeping the both of them alive.  Severus refuses to give Potter too much credit, though, as he has begun, predictably, neglecting his potions duties in favor of lollygagging around Diagon Alley.  This would anger Severus more if he wasn’t so pleased to have time to himself.

These days he spends every minute he can honing his magic, building up strength, until he can manage complex spells with only a little shortness of breath and a migraine.  Poppy would not approve, but since when has Severus listened to medical advice?

Today, Severus has his own plans.  Potter has blissfully buggered off to Diagon Alley, so there’s no one to stop him from turning his bed into a rickety wooden wheelchair, throwing on a glamour, and wheeling himself right out of the Shrieking Shack.  This is his third outing like this.  The first time had been rather treacherous due to the uneven footpath and steps that Severus found himself confronted with at the front door, but once he’d worked out a modified levitation charm, he found he could move around with relative ease.

His goal is to find out as much as he can about this world from the residents of Hogsmeade while under disguise.  For there is no longer any doubt in Severus’ mind that he and Potter have stumbled upon a completely new world.  An alternate reality.

Such things are known to exist, and there have been recorded cases of travel between realities.  Crossing worlds requires extremely powerful magic, a magic unknown to wizards.  Severus cannot begin to theorize on who might be responsible for their little trip, but before he can figure out the _who_ or the _why_ , he must know the _where_.  He must know what they are dealing with in this new world.  The Dark Lord may not be a threat, but there is always something, some new danger lurking around every corner and Severus cannot be caught unawares.  With Lucius Malfoy as Minister, there are bound to be some unpleasant surprises waiting for them here.

But, as he wheels himself through cheery Hogsmeade, Severus finds it difficult to imagine a danger worse than the one they left behind.  Severus knows this place.  He knows Hogsmeade.  He has lived adjacent to it for seventeen years.  But the people here are curious dopplegangers of the people Severus knew, far too carefree, too bright, too untouched by war.  It sets Severus’ teeth on edge.

He wonders how Potter can stand it, blending in with the crowd in this farcical reality.  But of course, the boy still believes they’ve travelled back in time or some nonsense.  Which of course, would not result in an entirely new world.  Such paradoxes are not possible, which the boy would know had he read any _respectable_ books on time travel, not the drivel he keeps bringing back with him to the Shack.  Severus doesn’t bother correcting him.  Watching the boy’s floundering attempts to understand space/time magic is amusing.

Severus wheels himself to the grocer’s, where he hopes to hear the day’s gossip.

A heavily pregnant young woman with a scarf around her shoulders converses with the grocer, a man Severus knows to be named Phil something.

“Are you trying to tell me these pomegranates are ripe?” she demands, shaking the red fruit next to her ear as if trying to hear its ripeness.

“Aye, ma’am,” Phil says with a grin that’s missing a few teeth.  “Grew ‘em meself.”

“But they’re not in season, are they?” she says with a smirk.

“Charmed me grove to bear fruit all year round.  It’s just as good as natural.”  Phil signs a cross over his heart and Severus snorts despite himself.

The sound brings the couple’s attention to him and the girl smiles at him.  “What do you think, sir?  Think Phil’s having me on?”

Phil gasps.  “I would never, Flora, you know me.”

“Yeah I do,” Flora says with a grimace.  “That’s why I want a second opinion.”

Severus maneuvers his chair closer to the pomegranate stand.  He hadn’t meant to get involved, but it might do to make connections with the locals.  He affects a slight tremble to his hand as it reaches up to grasp a fruit, adding the performance to his disguise as a feeble old man in a wheelchair.

“Well, young miss, it doesn’t take a Mastery in Herbology to know that magically assisted growth makes for poor quality produce,” Severus says, disguising his voice with a rasp.

“Ha! You see!” Flora crows. 

Phil groans but smiles good naturedly.  “Well I think we need a second second opinion.  Oi, Hagrid!  You got a moment?”

Severus freezes but does not turn around.  An enormous shadow falls over him and he slowly turns his head to look up, up, up at the bearded half-giant standing just behind his chair.  The man looks...different, to say the least.  Most alarmingly is his beard.  Trimmed short and close to the skin, it gives him a cleaner look and leaves Severus feeling entirely wrong-footed.  It’s as if a part of him is missing.  Without the bushy abomination, Severus almost doesn’t recognize the man, but there really is no mistaking a man of his size.

Then there is the hair.  Though still a mass of black curls, it seems to have been combed.  And recently, too.  As far as Severus knew, the combing of Hagrid’s hair was a biannual event, if that.  Missing, too, are the dirty coat and pink umbrella that Hagrid always kept on his person.  He is dressed now in finely tailored robes, in bronze and reds, with a dress shirt buttoned up to the neck, a purple bow tie resting beneath his newly visible chin.

Next to Hagrid is Septima Vector, dressed in summer robes and without her usual teaching hat.  Aside from that, her appearance is largely unchanged, much to Severus’ relief.  He doesn’t know how many more surprises he can take.

“Aye, Phil, what d’you need?” Hagrid says in his booming voice.  Severus hopes the surprise doesn’t show on his face.  Hagrid’s accent is different, too.  Slightly more refined, his diction crisper.

“Just having a discussion about the ripeness of me pomegranates.  Fella here says they can’t be grown right with spells, but I reckon they’re just fine,” Phil says.

“Hmm,” Hagrid holds a fruit between his forefinger and thumb.  It looks like a marble.  “I’m sorry, Phil, but I have to agree with the old man here.  Natural’s always best.”

Phil’s shoulder’s slump and Flora pats him on the back with a laugh.  “You almost had me fooled.”

Phil shakes his head with a smile.  “I’ll just ring up those greens for you then, shall I?”  The two head into the store, leaving Severus alone with his would-be colleagues.

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, sir.  I’m Rubeus Hagrid,” Hagrid offers a meaty hand, which Severus eyes with barely disguised contempt.  Still, he raises a feeble hand to take it in greeting.

“Samuel Fogthorn,” Severus says.

Vector nods her head in greeting.  “Septima Vector.  It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Do you live in Hogsmeade or are you visiting?”

Severus can’t be sure how well either of the other two know the village and its residents, so he says, “I’m staying with my nephew for a short time.”

Vector smiles.  “How lovely.  I do hope you enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you.”

Vector and Hagrid nod at him and seem ready to leave, but Severus cannot waste an opportunity to get information and try out his disguise.  “Might you know a good place in town to get a cuppa?  My nephew is away in London, you see, and I’ve been having difficulties getting around.”

“Septima and I were just on our way to the Three Broomsticks, why don’t you join us?” Hagrid offers congenially.

“How kind of you, young man.  Thank you.”

It’s a short walk to the Three Broomsticks and Severus makes light conversation on the way.  He makes up a backstory for himself—he’s an ailing old wizard with only a young nephew for company.  He’s visiting Hogsmeade because he cannot live on his own anymore and he cannot afford a House Elf.  If only his nephew would spend some quality time with his old uncle, instead of gallivanting off to London to be with his young friends all night long.  It’s all very sad and succeeds in endearing him to both Hagrid and Vector.

“Well if you’re ever in need of some company, you’re welcome to come visit me at my house,” Hagrid says as they sit down at their table.  “I’m always glad for the company during the summer hols.”

“Do you both live at Hogwarts?  You said you were professors.”  Severus examines the menu and selects a stew.

Vector shakes her head.  “Hagrid does, but I only stay there during the school year.”

“What are you doing here now then, if I may ask?”

“There was a staff meeting this morning.  All the teachers were summoned back.”

Unusual.  Staff meetings during the summer are rare and basically unheard of.  Severus knows that he would loathe having to come all the way to Scotland just to talk about his syllabus for the coming year.  The last time they had a summer staff meeting was the year of the Triwizard Tournament.

“Not having another one of those Tournaments, are you?” Severus ventures.

Hagrid laughs.  “Oh lord, no.  Once was enough.”

Severus nods sagely.  “As I’m sure the Champion would agree.  Now what was the child’s name…”

“Cedric Diggory,” Hagrid supplies.  “I hear he’s a reserve player for England now.”

Vector huffs.  “Quidditch.  That boy’s talents are wasted on that frivolous nonsense.”

Hagrid chuckles and pats Vector lightly on the back.  It nearly sends her face-first into her tea.  “Not all of us are fit for the academic life, Septima.”

“Hmph.”

“Oh?  Would you not consider yourself an academic, Professor Hagrid?” Severus asks, curious about what kind of life could have produced such a difference in Hagrid’s appearance and manner.

Hagrid smiles ruefully.  “I always found that learning things by doing agrees with me more than sitting in a dusty ol’ library.”

Vector snorts daintily.  “Yes, you do prefer the hands-on approach, don’t you?”

“What subject do you teach?”

“Care of Magical Creatures,” Hagrid says with no small amount of pride.

“Fascinating,” Severus drawls.  “And how long have you been a professor at Hogwarts?”

Hagrid scratches his short beard.  “Give or take a few, I’d say it’s going on thirty years now.”

Severus raises his eyebrows.  “Well isn’t that interesting.”

“Don’t seem the type, do I?” Hagrid grins.

“No, no,” Severus assures.  “It’s simply such a long time to commit to a single profession.  You must enjoy your work.”

“Aye.  But I figure I’ve done my fair share of travelling.  Worked in the Amazon for a few years, researching man-sized bats, then moved to Mongolia to work with the dragons.  Then Nepal, Romania, Thailand, Nigeria...  After a while, the homesickness gets to you.  And Hogwarts has always been my home.  Besides, can’t find a better place for research opportunities than the Forbidden Forest.”

“Research?”

Hagrids eyes gleam with intellectual excitement, something Severus never expected to see in the gamekeeper’s face.  “The Forbidden Forest is the most active habitat for wild magical creatures in the U.K.  There are even political systems at play within the forest communities themselves.  These aren’t simply wild animals, Mr. Fogthorn, these are people in their own right.  Peoples.  With different belief systems, languages and moral values, all cohabiting peacefully in the same place.  We have a lot to learn from them.”

“Oh don’t get him started,” Vector says with a fond smile.

Their lunch is served and Severus savors his hot stew before breaching the subject of the staff meeting again.  “Forgive an old man his forgetfulness, but what did you say the reason for your meeting was again?”

“We didn’t say,” Vector says in between bites of her salad.  “But it was a meeting to determine whether we should open up the school for classes in September.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.  The Headmaster is insisting upon it, and I happen to agree.  The students’ education must come first before all else.  The Board of Governors, however, have been expressing their concern.”

Hagrid growls.  “ _Board of Governors._   As if they have any idea what it’s like at Hogwarts.  If they had their way, we’d never open the school again.”

“Whyever not?” Severus asks, sensing a story there.

Hagrid lowers his voice.  “Well, ever since the...accident last December, there’s been whisperings that the school ain’t safe for the children anymore.  Too close to the Forbidden Forest and all.  But that’s codswallop.  It’s a tragedy, of course, but we know who was responsible and it won’t be happening again.”

Vector seems to stiffen at that.  “You seem so sure, Hagrid.”

Hagrid frowns.  “Now Septima...”

Vector purses her lips together and looks away.  There’s an uncomfortable silence at the table.  Severus looks between them, trying to decide whether he should push this obviously sensitive topic.  From what he’s gathered, there had been an accident at school, somehow related to the Forbidden Forest.  A tragedy.  Perhaps a student had died or been injured by one of the monsters that lived so close to Hogwarts.  It would hardly be unlikely, Severus had always told Albus that the Forest was a menace to public safety and needed to be fumigated.  But Hagrid had implied that someone had been responsible...

By the time lunch ends, Severus is no closer to figuring out this little mystery, but he catalogues all the differences in Hagrid (and the minor differences in Vector) in his mind.  Severus recalls Albus telling him the story of Hagrid’s expulsion and wand snapping.  He had been framed by a young Tom Riddle for the murder of another student, with nowhere else to go, had become Hogwarts’ gamekeeper with no education and no other prospects.  It seems that a world without the Dark Lord meant a world in which Hagrid had been able to explore his academic career and become a proper wizard who didn’t have to hide a broken wand within a pink umbrella.

Severus waves at Hagrid and Vector as they make their way up the path back to Hogwarts.  They had been valuable sources of information and he’d like to stay on their good side in case he runs into them again.

 

The Hog’s Head is as revolting as Severus remembers it to be.  He retires there after an unsuccessful afternoon of snooping.  So far he’s learned that the milkman is cheating on his wife, Mr. Swanson’s son is dating a Muggle, and Rosmerta is having an affair with Hooch.

Sighing, Severus signals to Aberforth for a Firewhiskey, throwing down a few sickles he’d pilfered throughout the day.  As he tips back his drink, he contemplates the problem of the Horcruxes.

The thing that baffled Severus the most was the presence of the Dark Lord’s former Horcruxes in the Shack.  What was the value of the burnt out shells of those artifacts?  Who would want to gather them all in one place and for what purpose?  And why the Shrieking Shack?

Severus half wonders if possibly their universe had simply decided to purge itself of dark magic, dumping Voldemort’s Horcruxes in a parallel world because they were simply too vile to remain where they were.  And Severus was included in that, of course, because that was his lot in life.

After another drink, Severus excuses himself to the loo (the glorious loo), a luxury that is conspicuously absent from the Shack.  Absently, he wonders where Potter has been doing his business, then quickly decides that he never wants to know.

On the way back from the loo he nearly crashes his chair into Sybill Trelawney, who is stumbling down the narrow hallway to get to the ladies’ room.

“Oh my goodness, pardon me, sir, pardon me,” she slurs, glasses perched crookedly on top of her head, hair flying everywhere.  Severus cannot and does not fight the sneer that overtakes his face.

“Watch where you’re going.”

Severus rolls himself back to his table in the shadowy corner and watches the bar’s other patrons with narrowed eyes.  He has confidence in his glamour, but he would prefer to keep the number of Hogwarts staff he interacts with to a minimum.  Not everyone at Hogwarts is as blind as Trelawney or as trusting as Hagrid.  Filius, for example, would see through his charms in an instant, and Minerva would catch on to his shabbily transfigured chair the minute she saw it.

After an hour of sitting and nursing his drink, Severus is relieved to note that no other staff members have decided to grace the Hog’s Head with their presence.  He orders another whiskey and uses eavesdropping spells to listen in on the conversations around him for another hour or two.  He knows he should probably head back to the Shack before Potter turns up, but he has no desire to return to that horrid place and the firewhisky is so pleasantly warm.

He is taking another sip of the powerful stuff when Albus Dumbledore walks into the room and Severus nearly chokes on his mouthful.

Aberforth winces at the sight of him and puts down the glass he’d been polishing.  Severus sinks back further into the shadows and directs his eavesdropping spell to the bar.

“...shouldn’t have come.  Thought you’d send one of your Elves.”

“And miss an opportunity to visit my dear brother?” Albus says, though there’s a strange stiltedness to the way he’s talking.  From what Severus can recall, the relationship between the two brothers was not a happy one.  “How is business, Aberforth?”

“Fine, fine.  You gonna take your employee, or are you just going to stand there all day?”

Albus sighs.  “Where is she?”

“Puking her guts out in the ladies’,” Aberforth says, jerking a thumb towards the loos.  Severus realizes they’re talking about Trelawney who, for the past hour, had been making her rounds about the pub telling people their fortunes by trying to read their palms.  She’d caused quite a disturbance when she’d told a man that he was soon to be cursed with horrible impotence.  Aberforth must have sent word to the school to pick her up.

Albus makes a few more attempts at light-hearted conversation with his brother before shaking his head and sweeping towards the restrooms.  As soon as he’s disappeared down the hallway, Severus rolls himself to the edge of the doorway and casts his eavesdropping spell again.  It’s harder when he can’t see his targets and it takes him a while to hone in on Albus and Trelawney.

It’s so similar to another time, an age ago, when Severus had been in this very pub spying on the same two people.  Severus is so struck by déjà vu that he isn’t sure what he’s hearing is real, that the hoarse voice in his ear isn’t an echo of memory.

“... _marked by the Dark Lord as his equal and sacrificed...the Hallows shall be united once more and Death shall come to claim what he is owed...neither can live while the other survives...”_

Severus holds his breath.  He holds his breath through Trelawney’s coughing fit, the confused babbling as she seems to come out of her trance.  He doesn’t breathe as Albus helps her out of the ladies’ room and down the hallway.  He doesn’t move, can’t move, from his spot near the door and his heart nearly stops as Albus’ robes brush against his chair.

But Albus pays him no mind.  His eyes are faraway, brows furrowed as he leads a stumbling Trelawney to the door.  He even seems distracted when he nods his goodbye to Aberforth, who breathes a sigh of relief when they finally walk out of the pub.

Severus wants to breathe a sigh of relief as well.  After all, he has just, against all reason, spied on Albus Dumbledore completely undetected.  But this isn’t the same Albus that Severus had known, this isn’t a war general, this isn’t the man who had seen the Wizarding world through two wars.  This is just a concerned school teacher, escorting home a colleague.  He will have no idea the significance of her words, no idea...

But Severus knows all too well.

Severus can feel the ache down to his bones as he rolls his chair back up the path to the Shrieking Shack, guided only by the light of the moon.  His arms feel like they weigh a tonne each and his back is on fire.  He still has almost no feeling in his legs, which he can only think of as a relief now that every inch of him is screaming in pain.  He knows that he’s overdone it.  He’s probably set his recovery back a few days, but it was worth it for the answers he’d gotten.  If only those answers hadn’t come with even more questions.

The prophecy weighs heavy on his mind as he levitates himself those final steps to the front door.  _Marked by the Dark Lord, sacrificed, neither can live while the other survives._   It could only mean Potter.  The question is, did it refer to the Harry Potter of this universe, or the one from their own?

Severus turns the ancient knob on the door, only for it to fly open, revealing Potter, shaking and eyes wild.

“Where have you _been_?!” he half-shouts, as if afraid someone will hear him.  Before Severus can object, Potter pulls him into the house and slams the door shut, slashing his wand at it in a motion Severus recognizes as a complex security ward.  “Where have you been?” he repeats, voice bordering on hysterical.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Calm yourself, Potter, what...” Severus’ voice trails off as he takes in the room around him.  All the potions equipment has been packed haphazardly into the cauldron, which sits next to a battered trunk.  The trunk must have wizard space, because he can see through the open hatch that Nagini’s body and the rest of the Horcruxes have been thrown in there.  He looks to Potter, whose wand is still out, who is trembling and pale as a ghost.

Severus draws his own wand.  “What has happened?”

Potter has begun looking out the windows, pacing restlessly from one to another, eyes constantly shifting, wand up.  His voice shakes.  “I was in Knockturn Alley and I saw—so I came back and you weren’t here and I thought someone had _taken_ you, or, or you’d tried to go into the Forest and, and died—Jesus, Snape, you’re in no condition to be going out!”

Severus narrows his eyes.  “Despite what you may believe, Mr. Potter, I am a grown man and my actions do not concern you in the least.”

“Don’t concern—and you call me reckless!  You _need_ to tell me if you’re planning something like this—have you...have you been _drinking?_ “

“That is none of your business, boy,” Severus sneers, putting his wand away.  Clearly, there was no actual danger, this was just Potter being paranoid and desperate for attention.  “Now if you _calm down_ and stop your bloody pacing, maybe I shall tell you what I’ve learned today.”

Potter only shakes his head.  His eyes look too big for his face.  “You don’t understand, Snape.  We need to leave.  Now.”

“And why is that?” Severus sneers.

“He’s here, Snape.  Voldemort's here.”


End file.
